


You'll Be That Boy

by doctor_jasley, gala_apples



Series: Family Film [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Dating, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When well known horror actor Frank Iero stops to get coffee at the end of a con, he stumbles across Brendon Urie, barely known indie actor. Brendon's roommates have about as much confidence as Frank's best friends that the relationship will last; neither are good at long term. Frank and Brendon know this time will be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Be That Boy

Frank needs to go the fuck to bed. Which sounds funny, considering he’s walking away from his hotel room and in said hotel room there are not one but two queen sized beds. The thing is, that doesn’t really matter. His room could have a hundred beds in it, and he still wouldn’t be able to sleep. 

The room next to his is hosting an informal Beetlejuice marathon. As the woman in full Lydia costume explained rather enthusiastically, apart from the movie there’s a cartoon with ninety four episodes, but one hundred and nine segments. Her door is propped open and the episodes have been playing non-stop since he checked in on Friday. If he didn’t know the theme song when he checked in, he does now.

It’s not just that though. If it was, he might be the party pooper that complains to the con heads, or even go above their heads to the actual hotel staff. But there’s no reason to try to push for quiet after three am or request a room switch when no matter where he goes the fangirls and boys want to talk to him.

Frank has had a decent amount of experience dealing with fen. When he initially got invited to Burtoncon, he didn’t think a minute before accepting. The instant Pete found out he worked his schedule so he could come along, much to the jealousy of Mikey and Alicia. Frank finds Pete’s muted fangirling of him funny. Pete can say as often as he wants that he should have held out for Jimmy the Hideous Penguin Boy or Roy the Toxic Boy, Frank knows it blows Pete’s mind that his boyfriend’s best friend was The Boy With Nails In His Eyes in the Melancholy Deaths movie.

What he hadn’t really expected was everyone else at the con also fangirling him. He’s not the headlining guest, and it’s not like he’s best friends with the man. He’s not exactly Johnny Depp or Helena Bonham Carter. In the past his fans have wanted to know about him, or his opinion on the roles he played. Here people are knocking on his door every half hour saying they’re sorry to bother him, but can he tell them just one story about Burton. Frank has exactly one good story, and he told it during the Melancholy panel.

There’s no question that Frank’s having fun. If he keeps his hood up he can make it through a discussion, of which there are many. There’s an entire hall of rooms devoted to discussing things. Frank attends one about the cinematography in the Batman trilogy, and comes away with an opinion on the use of night time scenes representing Batman’s mourning. Another interesting panel is about remakes vs originals; can fans really claim 2001 Planet of the Apes was better than 1968, just because Burton created it? 

There’s a brief awkward moment when he attends a transformative works discussion because he has opinions on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory being derived from a book. It turns out everyone else in the room wants to discuss fanfic, but he struggles through trying to keep an open mind. At least until a girl in a Gryffindor hoodie turns and tells him point blank she ships him and Char Boy, and she can link him her Mibba if he wants. Frank says no and flees.

It’s not just the discussions he likes. The karaoke night is great fun. Frank nearly didn’t go when Pete begged, figuring that Nightmare’s ten songs would make for a lot of repeats. Even when you add Sweeney Todd, Corpse Bride, James and the Giant Peach, and Charlie, there’s still not a lot to pick from. But it doesn’t matter. Three people in a row do Jack’s Lament, and three times Frank applauds. The enthusiasm isn’t surprising, but it is entertaining. Mars Attacks! makes a great drinking game Saturday night, and has enough mandatory actions written on the posterboard that the alcohol doesn’t have a chance to make him drowsy. He begs out of joining in on the recreation of Sleepy Hallow -contrary to his career Frank’s not super interested in murder mysteries, especially historical ones- but can’t deny that it’s really awesome that fans on a forum took the time to create it.

But the bottom line is he and Pete got here around four for Friday’s opening dinner, and it’s now five thirty Monday evening, and he hasn’t slept for more than a few one hour snatches in that span. Frank needs a bed, and he needs it now.

“It’s time to go. Con’s over.”

Pete waves a hand at him. “Is this room empty?”

“It’s the merch room. It’ll be open until eight tonight.” Frank’s got experience with this. The merch room is always the last thing to shut down. The dealers like to take every opportunity to milk the stragglers of a few more dollars.

“Well then, I guess we’re leaving at eight then.”

And the thing that sucks is that it’s Pete’s car, so it’s Pete’s call. He deposits his luggage at Pete’s feet and walks away, pulling out his cellphone as he does. He texts Mikey, knowing that either Gerard or Alicia will be reading over his shoulder. Maybe both. **your bf is a douchebag**

**y**

**you really mean why NOW**  
 **bcuz he wont fuckin leave. cons over its time to leave**

It takes Mikey a second to answer. **y ur panties bunchd?**

**im tired. i havent slept in four days**

**boo hoo**

**im serious! i walked into a tree an hour ago.**

**suck it up u no wot u have to do**

Mikey Way is a shitty best friend. But he’s got a point. Frank’s only option for staying alive at this point is getting coffee. Good coffee, not the hotel brand of shit that sits on top of his microwave in the room he's checked out of, and will also be in the continental breakfast room. Luckily he knows for a fact that there’s a shop a block away that’s mindblowing. He’s been in there about five times, and he’s pretty sure half the con has appropriated the seats over the weekend. The cafe has free wifi.

No matter what Pete says to the contrary, the con _is_ over. The coffee shop is still full of con goers still in full costume. Frank’s wait isn’t going to be short, but at least it looks as if most of the people dressed up are leaving after getting their triple and quadruple orders. They’ve no doubt decided to stock up on caffeine before they drive home, or to the airport. Frank almost envies them. He’d like to go home now - after he has sweet sweet coffee swimming in his veins. However, when he pulls out his cell phone the blue glow of the LED lighted screen informs him that it’s not even six. Mother fucker. Time hates him today. 

Maybe he can snag a corner table and just wait it out. He’ll keep buying coffee if he has to so as not to get kicked out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s mainlined more than three cups in one sitting. Once, he had a line of seven -or maybe it was nine- styrofoam cups with his name sharpied across the side, because filming had gone over and the director still needed him. Frank loves his job but sometimes he forgets how intense it can get, until it does. 

He keeps his hood up, but that doesn’t cause any of the con goers to magically pretend he doesn’t exist. The only people Frank’s sure aren’t whispering to each other about him being in line are the old couple doing a crossword together on one of the couches near the entrance, the guy three people in front of Frank who’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s seven again, and a mother with her little girl who are right behind Bouncing Guy.

Frank’s flanked by Burton fans. The girl in front of him is dressed as Alice while in Wonderland. Her costume is a bit too accurate, showing way too much skin. Usually Frank wouldn’t mind, but it’s not distracting in a good way. She’s trying to have a conversation with him and the guy behind him at the same time. The guy behind him isn’t in costume, but the jacket he’s wearing has some impressive embroidered movie patches scattered across the fabric. He seems perfectly fine with holding more than one conversation. Frank’s not as on board with the plan, and it’s not just because he’s tired as fuck. It’s hard enough having a conversation with one fan right now. It’s nearly impossible with a second when they keep interrupting each other to slip things into the string of topics.

Frank should be used to it by now. Mikey and Gerard tend to talk like some two-headed riddle monster, and it gets worse when they go into extra-special nerdy detail checking mode. The Ways have always been the exception to every rule though. They’re family. The people surrounding Frank are not. He still can’t be rude. The last thing Frank needs is a rumour spreading that he doesn’t respect his fans. The fans are the only reason he still has a career, can afford to go to cons like this one, and can pay his bills.

A wail reaches his ears and Frank’s pulled from whatever Jacket Guy and Alice are saying to him. The line has been moving steadily as Alice and Jacket Guy’s words have been flying. Apparently there was someone dressed as Edward Scissorhands way in front of them, seeing as the guy’s just passing them. Frank’s kind of impressed with Edward’s costume. It looks like it took time and way too many repeats of Face-Off running in the background to complete. He can’t really enjoy staring though because the wail morphs into hiccuppy cries. 

It takes having to lean half-out of line for Frank to see what’s happened. Alice doesn’t seem too happy with him looking around her. She can deal with it. Frank has to know why the little girl -in her bright blue jacket with flowers on it- in front of Alice is sad. 

Bouncing Guy in front of the little girl and her mother must have the same idea. He turns and asks the mother if everything’s okay. Bouncing Guy’s words aren’t whispered, Frank can hear the concern in his voice. Most people, including Alice it seems, land on the aggravated side of the Public Scene Is Occurring spectrum, but the guy doesn’t.

Frank’s intrigued.

“Tina’s not used to all the creepy costumes. She was a flower for Halloween.” Frank can understand that. Some parents don’t introduce their little ones to the Burton Circus of Freaks that young. The little girl’s probably been spooked this whole time and Edward set her off.

Alice seems to take it as a personal offence and starts whispering around Frank to Jacket Guy about parents controlling their children better. Frank wants to straighten up and glare at her. There’s a difference between trying to calm down a distraught child and yelling at one who’s demanding sugar every three seconds. 

He doesn’t get a chance to because Bouncing Guy drops into a crouch and starts mewling like a cat in front of Tina. “Hi Tina. I’m a cat. Focus on me, okay.” Tina nods her head slightly and her sobs turn into tiny giggles when the guy stands and prances in his spot in line like a crazy person. 

Frank is going to bet this shows up on Youtube within the next few hours. The guy doesn’t seem to mind though. One scared little girl matters more than being laughed at forever. The line starts to move again. Frank gets dragged in to a debate with Jacket Guy about if Corpse Bride should have had more singable songs, considering the soundtrack lists twenty, but only four have lyrics. 

Tina doesn’t cry again. Eventually her mother orders her a cupcake from behind the pastry counter. Once they have their order, they leave. Alice orders something complicated Frank tunes out. He’s too busy trying to scan the table area for the guy who was in front of Tina. 

A corner table ends up being jackpot, and Frank’s already formulating a plan when Alice bustles out of line with her spoils of a long wait cradled in her hands. The cashier smiles at him, a little strained around the edges, but doesn’t seem to recognize him. Frank considers it a win. He doesn’t know how long his goal will be sticking around and Frank really wants to introduce himself. It’s not everyday he comes across someone he wants to know without being introduced to them for work purposes first.

Juggling three tall coffees isn’t hard to do, not for Frank. Four can be, but he’s used to carrying three small distances without any trouble. He doesn’t even bother to grab a tray, just whisks between the tables and pushed out chairs until he’s standing beside his prey.

“Can we share a table?”

“Uh, sure?” Bouncing Guy pushes his hair back where it has fallen over his forehead, for all the world looking like a cat batting at its ear. Frank stamps down on the thought that it’s adorable before it roots too deeply. “If you don’t want to, I’m pretty sure there’s an empty table over there. But if you actually want to, go for it.”

Frank pulls out one of the chairs in answer, lining his cups in a row as he sits. “As reward for letting me sit here, I bequeath you a coffee.”

“Bequeath?” he asks, an undertone of a snort in his voice.

“Gimme a break. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve slept?”

“Oh, are you one of the people at the con across the street? You’re not all dolled up.”

“Nah.” He doesn’t want to explain the voice actor in a big screen theatre thing, it’ll sound like bragging. “Anyway, yeah, not actually for that. It was super cool of you to cheer up that kid. Random acts of kindness should get passed on.”

“I didn’t do it for a reward.”

“Yeah, ‘cause if you did that would make you a tool, not a nice guy. And I’m pretty sure you’re a nice guy. Take it. Take any of them. They’re all the same brew, and none of them have roofies or anything.”

“Thanks.”

As the guy downs the caramel foam covered coffee, Frank tries to think of something to start a conversation with that won’t lead back to bragging about jobs, or what they’ve done in the last few days. It’s remarkably hard. Frank blames the lack of sleep. In the end he goes with what’s easiest. “I’m Frank.”

“Brendon.” He’s got foam on his lip. Frank fantasizes a second about licking it off before just handing him one of the makeshift coffee cozy napkins. “You live here, or you fly in for the con?”

“Uh. I drove in, from Jersey.”

“Huh. I’m from Jersey too. I mean, not originally, that would be Vegas. But recently, yeah. I’m down for a week staying with Nadia. She played my mom on my last short, she’s actually younger than me, it was this whole time travel thing. She’s fucking awesome, and I had a reimbursement ticket I needed to cash in before the end of the year. That’s probably way too much information though, right? What do you care about Nadia.”

“Brendon, you can tell me whatever you want about her. I’m stuck here until eight, my asshole friend wants to be the one to turn the lights off and lock the door. Uh, I mean, I don’t know how long you want to sit around and drink coffee by a fake ass fireplace in a coffee shop in Raleigh. But I’m here as long as you are.”

“I can stay for a while. I’m supposed to occupy myself until she gets off work at nine.” Brendon smiles, and Frank grins back, face completely out of his control in the wake of this great man.

*

Brendon stares at his reflection. His hair doesn’t want to cooperate with him. It’s doing its own thing and he’s out of gel. There’s no way in hell Brendon’s going to touch Ryan’s stash of product when Ryan’s not around to be talked into styling Brendon’s hair. He doesn’t need another two hour lecture on best roommate practices from the guy who forgot to pay their power bill _twice_ last winter. Thankfully, Spencer remembered to double check, or the three of them wouldn’t have had heat for some of the coldest days of that calendar year. 

While it would be helpful having his best friends-slash-room mates around right now to make sure he’s not dressed too much like a crazy person, it’s good that they’re not. Brendon hasn’t been on a date in so long that he can’t actually remember when the last one was. The last thing he needs to do is clue Spencer and Ryan in on his potential boyfriend. His friends have this uncanny habit of talking him out of poor life choices. His agent has said more than once that if Brendon wants his career to go further than it already has, he needs to keep focusing on work. So instead of a lecture on being a good roommate, Brendon’s sure he’d hear something along the lines of how a significant other will only botch his chances -in the far off future- of getting an Oscar. It doesn’t matter that Brendon’s sure he’ll never work on a film that will ever get close to even being nodded for an Academy Award, Ryan would bring it up just to bring it up. 

It’s best to keep Frank to himself.

They’ve been emailing constantly. Occasionally they chat on instant messenger, but their schedules don’t quite match. Emails can be read at any time. They have one email -amongst the dozen different conversations they’ve been having- thread dedicated just to animals wearing cute articles of clothing. Brendon’s been enjoying the topics they bounce between. He likes Frank. A lot. It’s a new concept, but one Brendon’s finding he’s more than okay with. 

Twitter and Facebook are no go zones because, apparently, Frank’s a big deal in the horror genre’s circle of not always obscure actors and actresses. He has an actual fanbase who virtually stalk him. Brendon’s fine with that. He has to limit his Twitter and Facebook time anyways, or it ends up as a major time suck.

His reflection doesn’t change in the bathroom mirror, no matter how many times he smooths down his hair. Brendon decides _fuck it_ and gives up. Either he looks like some demented circus clown or he doesn’t. Being late to their first date won’t win him any brownie points. 

His winter coat isn’t difficult to snag from its home hanging from the coat rack near the front door. Mid-December doesn’t make for the warmest of days. When he climbs into his car he turns the heat up to five and sits idling until it’s toasty warm. It’s a waste of gas, but it’s hard to drive when all he can focus on is chattering teeth. 

Twenty minutes later it’s a bitch getting out of the car. Once he’s parked it takes a minute to motivate himself to open the door and step into the cold. Only the time glaring at him from the dashboard makes him suck it up and move. His parents taught ten minutes early for everything, and while most of their other lessons have either faded away or burrowed themselves nastily into his psyche, being at the very least on time is still important to him. It’s a personal rule that helps his career too. The only issue is Ryan, who covers his complete inability to remember when he’s supposed to be somewhere with a stupid hipster attitude of late is fashionable.

Brendon’s scurrying inside when a voice stops him. “Hey!”

He stops, halfway through the door. He turns, unsure. There’s a huddled figure with bright red hands smoking, and Brendon remembers Frank likes cigarettes, but he can’t actually see any of the jacketed man’s face under the expansive hood. For all he knows it could be a random bum targeting restaurants figuring those inside have disposable income.

“Lemme finish up, and then we can go in, okay? Or if you wanna go in and order drinks, go for it. I’m not gonna ditch, trust me. I’ve been waiting for shit to clear up so we could do this.”

Brendon shakes his head. He gets out of the doorway, coming to a halt at the edge of the walkway. That way he’s close to Frank, but not standing in three inches of snow. He hates getting wet shoes. As soon as his feet get cold they take hours to warm up again. “I’ll wait. Ryan smoked cigarettes for like three years because all the lit students did. Bothered Spencer way more than it bothered me.”

“Better tobacco than clove cigarettes for the goth hidden deep inside him.”

Brendon interrupts Frank with a long cackle. The idea of Ryan in black lace and velvet is downright hilarious. Well, maybe not the lace. But it would have to be wine colour, like a vest paired with dark green trousers. 

“I’m serious. That shit is nasty. I was dating this guy and I could barely kiss him.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure he’ll be kissing Frank at the end of the evening, and he doesn’t care how many cigarettes he tastes like.

“Oh, is this the point where we’re all awkward and carefully don’t mention past dates because those fuck-ups will somehow jinx today?”

He hasn’t really had much in terms of dates. And as far as he can remember, there haven’t been any fuck-ups. One short term relationship in freshman year of college, and one night stands since then. When you only know a guy overnight it’s hard to fuck it up. “That wasn’t what I was doing. I was just thinking about kissing you and not caring what your mouth tasted like after dinner.”

“Why wait?” Before Brendon can really react to the words, Frank is leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the lips. It’s barely more than a touch, and it just makes Brendon want more.

His lips are still tingling -or maybe it’s just that he can’t stop thinking about them- when the hostess leads them to a table for two. Brendon peels his jacket off and sits as Frank still is standing, inquiring about lactose free options. Then Frank starts to take his off and a voice in Brendon’s head begs Frank just keep undressing. When he takes guys home watching them get naked is almost the best part. It’s the small portion of time in which sex is guaranteed, but still full of possibilities for position and cock size and enthusiasm.

But that’s not what this is. This is a date, because Frank is funny, and sexy, and a pretty good guy -at least as far as his publicist and the fanblogs report- and Brendon is twenty three, and it’s time to stop sticking his dick in strangers when he wants another person to touch him. So he stops looking at Frank's tattooed arms and the bunched part of his shirt that reveals part of his back, and takes the menu he’s been offered.

He flips through the first two pages then looks up, intent on asking Frank what he plans on ordering. The question dies on his tongue. In the week since they met, Frank’s changed his hair. A lot. In Raleigh it was black and shaggy, nearly shoulder length. Now it’s almost shaved on the sides, and bleached a white blond, with only a strip of black down the middle. The black’s still long, hanging past his nose over his right eye.

“Wow,” he manages after a second.

“You like it? I fucking love it.”

“It’s really funky. Ryan would hate it, of course. Do you think your agent is gonna freak out?”

“I don’t see why. I can always shave the middle off the next time I have filming. Which isn’t for a few months anyway. But they already have to cover my arms, it’s not like tossing on a wig makes it much more difficult.” He stops for a second as the waiter drops off glasses of water, then continues. “Funky’s good, right?”

“Funky’s good. Funky’s like, I kinda want to come around the table and pet the black stripe like it’s a cat. But that’s weird, and especially creepy for a first date, so I won’t.”

“Not being a massive creeper on a first date. So much restraint, Brendon. Must be love or something.”

Frank’s grinning. It’s a great look on him. “Or something.” It could be more though, maybe. If he doesn’t fuck this up by fucking him an hour from now and deleting his number when he’s gone and it’s just him and Spencer and Ryan watching a movie. Brendon’s just got to not fuck it up.

*

Frank wakes up to the dulcet tones of a car alarm, completely hard. Not really a surprise, after the dream he’s just had. He yawns and reaches into his boxers as the owner turns it off, probably without bothering to check if someone actually is trying to break in. He could roll over and try to get back to sleep immediately, but he’d have to be careful to not crush his cock. Besides, it’s like tempting fate. If you have erections and don’t use them, sooner rather than later you’ll want erections and not be able to get them. 

He strokes quickly, eyes closed, keeping the image of Brendon bent over the 1910 model T in his head the whole time. In his dream Brendon was gloriously naked, suit scattered over the cobblestone. Frank hasn’t gotten that, isn’t sure when he will. But he’s seen him bend over enough that he could describe his ass to anyone that cared to listen. It’s a quick session. If he’d stayed asleep it would have been a wet dream within minutes.

Done, he reaches to the nightstand for a kleenex. He can’t feel the top half of the tissue, but the box is there. Irritated he gropes for the whole box and jams his fingers in the plastic, ripping it. His fingertips hit cardboard. _Fuck_. He could get up and get another box from where they’re stored under the sink, but it just doesn’t seem worth it. Frank showers every morning. He might as well wash the crust off then, and go back to sleep now.

Of course, it’s not meant to be. He drops back off nearly instantaneously, and less than twenty minutes later wakes to his phone ringing. Frank groans, knowing who it is. Peppers knows too, she makes a flying leap and lands on the edge of the bed, then scuttles across the duvet as he takes a deep breath and answers. Peppers loves Mikey, even when Frank doesn’t.

“Hey. Bought Von Hessen.”

Frank appreciates that, he really does. It only came out today -well, yesterday now- but there have been cam versions up for weeks. When Mikey was in high school the FBI came to discuss his pirating with him. Him purchasing whatever Frank does is a true sign of support.

“But there were a few things-”

That is what Frank doesn’t appreciate. What’s coming next. He can’t hang up, Mikey will either call back or be offended. Probably both. He just has to suffer.

“Right, so the first. The whole medieval theme was interesting, but it was just really badly done. Especially that one scene, you know, with Tiffany?”

“It’s two fifteen in the morning. I don’t care if Tiffany’s brain was too grey when it splattered on the mace.”

Mikey ignores him. “Did you know the proper term was Kettenmorgenstern?”

“...Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why would I lie about that? You should know that kinda stuff if you’re going to be wielding it.”

That was not the kind of seriously he meant. “You didn't know ‘til you looked it up.”

“You should have looked it up too, when you were script reading. But anyway, moving on to number two.”

As Mikey starts describing how the mace isn't properly constructed for the time period it was said to be from because the spike formation is wrong, Frank takes a good hard look at the objects around him. There are no nooses lying around, but it’s possible he could smother himself on a dog. He reaches for Peppers, then holds her over his face. Because Jesus Christ, he’s willing to bet Mikey’s list of prop issues goes into the dozens. 

Mikey’s on the fifth issue when his phone beeps. Frank cackles silently, then interrupts. “Sorry, call waiting. Be right back Mikey.”

He punches in the code that lets him switch and realises immediately he laughed victoriously too soon. It's Gerard. “Hey Frank. So just letting you know, that was the wrong type of brick for the climate in Von Hessen. It would have shattered in the spring with the water.”

“Uh huh.”

“Frank, you have to listen because it’s not just the realism thing. That brick totally messes up the atmosphere also. It just kills the mood. A good piece of stone wall would have been better-” Gerard’s voice doesn’t pull the Charlie Brown _whumpa whum_ talking style, but as he goes on about the sets it gets close. Frank pets Peppers and tries to will himself into unconsciousness. 

The more he thinks about it, the more suspicious he is about why they’ve both called at the same time. “Did you just finish watching it?”

“Oh, no. We watched it during dinner. And then I worked on this great zombies mural, the canvas is like seven by seven foot. And I think Mikey went on Wikipedia to research your movie? Why?” 

Mikey has spent five hours fact checking on Wikipedia. Fuck his life.

“No reason, it’s okay.”

Call waiting beeps impatiently, which can only mean one thing. Mikey hung up and called him a second time to get his attention. “I’ve got Mikey waiting, can I just talk to you later?”

“Cool, talk to you in a hour.”

“No, I meant tomorrow Gee. Like, after I sleep.”

“Oh. Right, yeah sure.”

He switches back. “What, Mikey.”

“You’re just cranky because you haven’t fucked Brent yet. Don’t take that shit out on me.”

“Brendon.” And if he is cranky -which he isn’t because he’s not a middle aged mother- it’s because he’s tired and his pubes are pulling painfully with tacky come.

“Whatever. You'll fuck him and then you'll forget he exists, so what does it matter?”

“He’s not like the others.” 

“None of the others were like the others. Until you fucked them.”

Mikey doesn’t understand meaningless sex. Sex for him means a lot of complicated things. He’s got Pete and Alicia, and they’ve just started sharing themselves with Gabe. He’s never been able to understand Frank falling in love and falling out of it after a month. He’s had Pete since high school, they both found Alicia in college. Frank’s happy for him, just like he’s happy for Gerard being completely comfortable with being ace. But Gerard’s lack of sexual activity and Mikey’s forever after fairytale love have made Frank’s spotty dating history look ugly. 

But it doesn’t matter now. Brendon is different. Brendon is _totally_ different. Mikey will see. They’ll all see. 

*

 _The Long and Winding Road_ is playing from Ryan and Spencer’s room when Brendon slips out of his. It’s Christmas and Ryan’s listening to the Beatles. At least he’s not listening to John Lennon’s Christmas song on repeat. Last year was a bit unbearable because Ryan wouldn’t shut it off, even when they were having Christmas dinner and then sat down in the living room to watch A Miracle on 34th Street and It’s a Wonderful Life afterwards. 

A quick detour to the bathroom takes less than five minutes. Brendon is careful to not touch the half-open door on his way in or out. It creaks like the wooden floors in all the horror movies he’s been looking up on his computer via Youtube. Video clips can be like cliff notes, if you know how to string them together to find a plot or good part of the movie to talk up. Unless it’s Troll II or Night of the Lepus. Troll II was such a mess of weirdness Brendon ended up finding a torrent to download just to try to figure out if people were posting clips so far out of order on purpose. They weren’t. Brendon had to delete the movie as soon as he was finished because it was a travesty to the film making community. At least Night of the Lepus was hilarious. There’s no way Brendon could buy that tiny, fluffy rabbits covered in ketchup were evil killing machines. Troll II was just _bad_.

He’s had Youtube running three days straight because Frank emailed him a list of movies that might come up in conversation at the Way household during Christmas dinner. Having homework is something Brendon’s used to. He usually has to do some form of research when he’s cast in a role. Not that it helps him much when no one wants to listen to him mention set or plot inconsistencies, like the high school looking wrong when he gets hired for another indie drama about the woes of being a teenager. He’s not the director or script writer. Brendon’s a lowly actor, a secondary character at that, and no one wants to take advice from him. That doesn’t stop Ryan and Spencer from poking at inaccuracies every time they all sit down on the sectional to watch the newest movie Brendon’s been in. There’s a collection of dusty DVDs on the top shelf of the movie bookcase that Ryan refuses to touch now that they’ve been watched once. Ninety percent of them have Brendon in them. 

Brendon’s slipping by the kitchen when he hears the sound of coffee pouring into a mug. _The Long and Winding Road_ has switched to _All You Need is Love_ which means Ryan’s still in his room. Brendon’s going to guess that Ryan’s reading one of the novels on his lit course’s reading list; the one he doesn’t start going to until the second week of January. Excellent deducting skills put to good use, Brendon comes to the conclusion that Spencer’s in the kitchen. It’s easy to imagine Spencer grabbing his cup of coffee and shuffling to their shitty kitchen table so he can puzzle over the crossword puzzle in yesterday’s paper. Brendon has maybe three minutes before Spencer yells from the kitchen to Ryan for a word that’s seven letters and means something so ancient that only seven people in the world know the answer.

Brendon's confident he can get out in three minutes without being noticed. He can be a ninja when he needs to be. He had to acquire the skills when he was a teenager. The moment his parents decided acting wasn’t something they wanted their youngest son to be tainted over, he had to start being covert as shit. After his third grade class put on a cheesy production of Wizard of Oz, Brendon was hooked. He wasn’t giving acting up, no matter what his parents wanted.

“Are you going out? If so, give me a second and I’ll order us pizza. You can pick it up. Delivery fees are for rich assholes who can afford the extra five dollars plus tip tacked to the order price.” Spencer stops in the open archway of the kitchen. He’s wearing a faded pair of jeans and a white shirt. Brendon was half expecting pajama bottoms and no shirt. It’s Christmas, a lazy day of no dress requirements. It's not a surprise that Spencer's brought up the delivery fee. It’s a rant Brendon’s used to. He can recite all seven versions of the speech in his sleep. Too bad none of Brendon’s casting calls ask for that. He’d be a shoe in for sure then. 

Pizza sounds good, but Brendon has plans. Plans Spencer, and by extension Ryan, don’t know about. Which means he can't explain them now, even though Spencer's waiting for a reply.

Spencer scratches at his chin. He’s starting to grow a beard. Brendon’s mildly envious. Would he be taken more seriously if he grew a beard? Ryan would have _something_ to say about it. Brendon’s curious about how Ryan’s going to react when he realizes Spencer’s stopped shaving. The resulting antics could be impressive.

“I know it’s technically my turn to pick up holiday dinner, but calling counts right?” Spencer pulls his phone out of his back pocket while he talks. Brendon fidgets because he’s crap at lying. Unless he’s acting, but Spencer can tell when Brendon’s putting on a show, always has been able to. 

“Don’t let Ryan hear you say that. I um...kinda have plans for the night with my um...boyfriend. If Ryan finds out he can get away with just calling for holiday dinners, he’ll weasel his way out of every turn that’s his.” Brendon tries to not rush his words, but does make sure to slip in what he’s doing in the middle of his opinion on Ryan taking advantage of any loop-hole he can find. Maybe Spencer will only catch it subconsciously.

Spencer’s scrolling through his contact’s list for Lou’s. It’s always open till six p.m. on Christmas. Brendon can make it home free if he makes a break for the door now. Spencer’ll be too busy pacing the length of the kitchen giving the person on the other line their order to pay attention to Brendon leaving. Brendon can always text at a red light that he’s not near Lou’s and won’t be in the area to get the pizza. Spencer will forgive him eventually. Two steps to the door, however, Brendon freezes. 

“We’re going to starve to death on this freezing cold night of _friendship_ and _solidarity_ because you expect to get laid.” 

Mother fucking fuck. Where the fucking hell did Ryan come from? Brendon wants to bang his head against a wall, _hard_. Instead he leans around Ryan and grabs his black winter coat.

“I have plans. I may have _selectively_ forgotten to mention them. Silly me, but I have to go. I have a _date_.” 

Ryan stares at him critically. Brendon wants to laugh because Ryan’s still in his sleepwear. Everything matches except for the silk scarf that’s wrapped around his neck looking delicate and so far out of place that it’s ridiculous. Brendon doesn’t get a chance to so much as snicker before Ryan interrupts his thoughts. “It’s illegal to let us starve.”

“No it’s not. The law doesn’t say anything about that.” 

Ryan raises an eyebrow at him. When did Brendon’s life get so aggravating? He has a holiday date with Frank to meet Frank’s friends. This is important to Brendon’s future. “Oh, so you’re just being a cruel jackass on purpose for a piece of ass. But it’s fine, because it’s not technically illegal.” 

Dear god. Brendon wants to sigh and close his eyes, but that’s a sign of weakness. You don’t show weakness in front of Ryan Ross in a disagreement. Spencer’s long since closed his cell phone, spiriting it away back to its pocket. Brendon would be a moron if he thinks Spencer will come to his rescue. Spencer’s _always_ on team Ryan Ross. It rarely bothers Brendon. In fact, it’s generally amusing as fuck. Just not today.

“It’s a fucking _date_ , Ryan. D. A. T. E. An important meet the best friends one at that. I _can’t_ be late.” Brendon knows he’s squaring his shoulders and doesn’t look pleased. It’s not to be helped though. He has plans that are slowly falling apart right in front of his eyes. He doesn’t care if they don’t understand this. Brendon likes Frank, regardless of how little time has passed since they first met.

“So you don’t want a Golden Globe sitting next to your movies on the bookcase?” 

Spencer’s trying not to laugh from the kitchen doorway. Any other day, Brendon would have broke into peals of laughter by now. Today is different. Today is stressful enough without getting a ‘how to get successful’ speech from Ryan.

Reason isn’t working, so Brendon does the first thing he can think of. He darts forward and snatches Ryan’s scarf from his neck. “Let me by or I start twisting until the threads break.” The silk is soft in his hands and Brendon isn’t expecting he’ll have to go through with ruining one of Ryan’s fancy scarves, but he will if he has to. 

Spencer’s frowning behind him. Brendon doesn’t have to turn to see it. He can feel the disapproval. Fuck it, this isn’t the first time. He can deal with it.

Ryan lunges at him and Brendon drops the silk as if it’s as hot as the sun. With Ryan away from the door Brendon’s home free- if he can reach it before he gets tackled. It's close. The door slams behind him and Brendon bolts for the stairs. He’s safely hidden away in his car before he takes the time to catch his breath. When he does, snatches of nervous laughter tumbles from his lips. What the fuck? Brendon has the weirdest life _ever_. 

Of course, now he’s pissed Ryan off. Coming home tonight won’t be pretty. Spencer will make lists of questions and Ryan will correct them by adding bigger words. It’ll be an inquisition. Brendon’s sure this is worth it though.

He has directions to where he’s supposed to meet Frank, but he gets turned around twice. There’s a parking lot that doesn’t insist on payment, so Brendon pulls in, parks, and drags out his cell phone to send a text to Frank.

**lost. in prking lot of Chinese restaurant Fancy Dragon.**

Instead of a reply by text, Frank calls him and says he’ll come by and Brendon can follow him to the Way house. 

It takes twenty minutes for Frank to show up. In that time Brendon gets one text from Spencer saying they’re going to have a talk when he gets back. It’s expected. After the text he plays some weird melody game on his phone. Frank taps on his window and Brendon pops the lock on the door. He could roll down his window, but he wants a hug. Frank hasn’t seemed against hugging and such, so Brendon wants to take advantage of that. Spencer and Ryan aren’t much on the touchy side and as much as he never wants to go back, he can’t help but miss the way his siblings were. 

When they hug, the wind crashes into them. It’s a fucking cold winter. Frank smells warm though. Like sandalwood or amber. Probably sandalwood because his sinuses aren’t reacting and amber always makes Brendon sneeze. 

“Thank everything you’re not a ring bearer. All of Middle Earth would be slaves of Sauron because you failed to find Mount Doom.” 

Frank’s joke isn’t mean. Brendon can’t help but laugh, then point out the obvious. “That makes you Gollum then.” That earns him a laugh from Frank. When they part they’re both smiling. 

“Buckle up and follow me.” Frank goes back to his car and Brendon slides back into his.

It’s only a ten minute drive before Frank is pulling into a wide driveway. Something must have delayed him on the way to the Chinese place. Maybe he’s not as great as he claims, and he got lost too. Three cars are already parked down the left side of the driveway. Brendon’s back tires are at the edge of the slushy grit covered cobblestone, his bumper is officially in the road. But it’s the same for the truck beside him, so Brendon isn’t too concerned. A driver would really have to intend to scrape him to get him, and it would probably fuck their car up just as much.

He does his best to scrape the brown slush on the frozen welcome mat as Frank presses the doorbell like he’s tapping out a Morse code, but he’s pretty sure he does a poor job. There’s no matching mat on the inside of the door, just a haphazard cluster of shoes that would probably make Spencer weep. He takes his off and places them neatly side to side, a half decade of training ingrained in the movement. Frank is a kicker, his make little thuds against the wall before they tumble to the top of the pile.

“Hey Mom, Dad,” Frank shouts as he walks past a closed door. Brendon can hear football playing underneath their replies to him. Brendon remembers Frank saying Christmas is at Mikey and Gerard’s house, and it doesn’t seem likely that Frank’s parents came over to celebrate with him. But Brendon knows better than most how inquiring about family can ruin a happy celebration, so he doesn’t ask, just follows Frank into the basement.

The basement is an explosion of green and red. It takes a moment for Brendon’s eyes to focus and realise it’s because there are bolts of fabric duct-taped to the walls. It would be a cool effect if it wasn’t so busy Brendon could go cross-eyed looking at it. Even the people are green and red; everyone is wearing an obnoxious ugly sweater. The one exception is an extremely tall man with a bright blue sweater with smiling dreidels painted on in puff paint.

“Guys, this is Brendon. Brendon, this is Mikey and Gerard and Alicia and Pete and Gabe.”

Brendon doesn’t really see how the names are assigned, and he doesn’t get a chance to ask. The shortest of the people crammed onto the couch frowns and all but shouts “motherfucker took off his festive sweater. Get out of my house!”

For a second Brendon is confident that the short one is Mikey or Gerard. And then Frank scowls -in a friendly way- and replies “eat shit, Pete, I just didn’t want to scare Brendon off with the massive reindeer head. I’ll put it on again. Eventually.”

“Let me help you with that!” That’s the girl, so there’s a good chance she’s Alicia. A lot of names these days are unisex, but he’s never heard of a male Alicia. She grabs a wrinkle of hunter green yarn and tackles Frank. It’s half wrestling half dirty as they writhe on the grey carpet, Frank doing his best to avoid Alicia shoving Frank’s hands through the arm holes. It’s like sex in reverse, and Brendon really doesn’t want to see Frank doing it with someone else, but he bites his tongue.

He bites it again when the tall one stands up to grab a fully dressed Frank by the strip of hair and hold him in place. He kisses Frank’s forehead, which is mostly friendly and fine, then squeezes his ass, which isn’t. “Now you’re beautiful.” He releases Frank and it’s all Brendon can do to not pull him close in a show of ownership. “Brendon, you want to be beautiful too?”

“Huh?”

“It’s one of many traditions,” Pete explains. “Everyone needs to wear a horrific Christmas sweater.”

The one with the long black hair, almost like Frank’s the first time Brendon met him, elbows Pete. “Festive sweater.”

“Right. With the addition of Gabe we’ve been forced to become P.C. There’s probably a second Hanukkah sweater in the chest of mysteries.”

Gabe confirms “there’s two left. Gerard was nice enough to give me a variety. So, whatta want, Brendon?” 

Brendon picks a snowman sweater out of the chest of mysteries, which is really just a laundry basket with yet another piece of fabric draped over it. He and Spencer and Ryan made a snowman the first winter after they moved to Jersey. That was his first time ever making one. There are no bad memories attached to snowmen, unlike the cream sweater with a gingerbread house spangled with sequins for gumdrops. Hopefully tonight won’t become a bad memory. Although even if it does, with Ryan Brendon doesn’t really have to worry about experiencing Christmas sweaters again if he doesn’t want to.

It’s good for a few minutes, and then Alicia suggests they watch a movie before she has to go back to her family for Christmas dinner. Pete pushes hard for Nightmare Before Christmas, Gerard agitates equally hard for Black Christmas, and for some inexplicable reason Gabe requests Christmas With the Kranks. It’s Mikey that settles the debate by plugging a cord into the laptop that connects it to the tv and puts on Home Alone.

It’s Mikey that ruins things. Gerard suggests a quick run upstairs to grab cookies so they can fully spoil their appetites for Christmas dinner later, a suggestion that’s met with heavy approval. Hands full of shortbread, almond shortbread, messy sugar cookies, and in Pete’s case chocolate covered pretzels, they all resettle on the slightly grimy, paint splattered sectional to get a good view of the television. Gabe stretches out fully on the short side of the sectional, legs widely spread in a V so Alicia can settle between them, head on his abdomen. Pete’s head is on his shoulder, and beside Pete is Mikey. Gerard’s got the arm of the chair, which should leave he and Frank squished together in between the brothers. Except Mikey pulls Frank onto his lap. Frank slouches so Mikey can rest his chin on his head.

Brendon can’t possibly comment. They’ve only been dating about two weeks. If he seems possessive now, as soon as he’s out of the room all Frank's friends will warn Frank he’s creepy. Not to mention how Frank himself might see it. Besides, it’s not really fair of him to be jealous. They’re Frank’s friends, in Mikey and Gerard’s case Frank’s said that they’re nearly brothers. If Ryan was the hugging type, and Frank saw Ryan hugging him, Brendon wouldn’t want Frank to get all shouty. 

He knows it logically. It’s just hard being in a room where everyone likes his boyfriend. Mikey is almost smelling Frank’s hair, and Brendon wants to just push him away and lick the nape of his neck. Brendon hasn’t tried to yet. It’s kind of a move you do while topping, and they haven’t gotten there yet. But he wants to, and he wants to _now_ to tell everyone to fuck off and stop, without actually saying those words.

And then Frank stretches out his still crumb covered hand and takes Brendon’s. And it’s better.

*

Dried red-dyed corn syrup is a bitch sometimes, especially if the shit trickles onto his clothing when it’s still wet. He’s rarely covered in it much anymore, thank fuck. There’s always some new way to project blood-splatter on screen, and Frank’s okay with being a lab rat for progress of technique. 

Anyways, Mikey and Gerard can spot corn syrup from miles away. It’s one of the first things they bitched about when Frank originally got into the business.

_“The consistency is too thick for blood.”_

_“Blood’s not that red. It’s darker, rustier. You really need talk to the special effects and make-up artists about that. They can’t keep fucking up. It’s a grievous mistake in judgement.”_

Even alone in his own bathroom, Frank can still imagine their voices and what they’d say to him right now. Which would be the same as what they’ve said in the past. They mean well, even if it’s annoying as hell. 

Washing his hands a third time with scalding-hot water finally peels away the last flakes of red. Wafer thin flecks of softening corn syrup stare up at him. Frank grabs for a hand towel after shutting off the water. He can clean the shit out of the sink later.

He’s walking into his living room to watch mindless tv shows when he glances down at the hand towel he forgot to leave in the bathroom. Tiny lavender flowers stretch across the surface of the fabric. 

That can’t be right.

Frank doesn’t use floral print anything. For one thing, he’s not a flowery type of guy. Also, floral prints tend to drown him in bad memories. Nothing good ever comes from seeing tiny little budding blooms on fabric.

It takes a minute or two to realize that the hand towel is actually a dish towel. Which explains the print. Except it doesn’t. 

Frank doesn’t own a single dish towel. Pot holders galore, yes, but no dish towels. If he needs something to wipe down the countertops with and can’t use paper towels, he wanders off to snag a wash cloth from the bathroom closet. 

“This is reckless behavior, son. I can’t condone actions like that. Not under this roof.”

The voice comes from all angles, angry and disapproving. Frank drops the dish towel to the ground. He doesn’t notice it fusing to the wood floor that shouldn’t be under his feet.

His apartment is carpeted. 

Snap-shots of childhood photos flicker from their hanging homes on the walls. Frank stares at them instead of the room he’s standing in. He hasn’t been in his family home in _years_. Hasn’t seen his parents in just as long.

Hell, his parents moved right before graduation, so it’s not like Frank can go back to relive old memories, even if he wanted to. 

“We care about you and this is not _safe_. What happens if you get killed because of this?”

Frank can imagine his mother staring at him, words steady and blank while trying to talk him away from some imaginary edge. She’s not here. Only her voice, his father’s voice, and trinkets of his past seem to be left to torment him in a room that no longer holds warmth.

“There’s a school nearby that could help. Your mother talked to the principal while you were doing your homework.” 

Kissing Jamie Kent behind the gym was never supposed to have caused issues. Frank’s parents never seemed like assholes before the night they caught word of Frank’s extra-curricular activities. Sure they were all _parenty_ , but not the raging dicks they turned into when they found out Frank liked guys just as much as chicks.

Suddenly the armchair to the right of Frank splinters into three pieces. The chunks of wood sag against each other in the same way they did after Frank threw it against the wall all those years ago. 

“I’m not going to a _special_ school. You can’t make me.” 

Frank spins around, almost tripping over what’s left of the hand towel. His voices rings in his ears, but he didn’t say anything. The room is still as empty of life as it was a moment ago.

“This isn’t debatable. You transfer there, or you leave.”

Something jostles him and Frank blinks. Peppers licks his face and Frank has to shake his head several times to wake up. His bedroom’s mostly dark. The landlord has the heat up ridiculously high and there’s no thermostat, so he’s taken to leaving the window open halfway so he doesn’t sweat in his sleep. The curtain normally blocks out the dark night, the moon. Normally it doesn’t bother him anyway, he doesn’t have PTSD or something. But after a nightmare, even a sliver of the moon only serves to make him more anxious. 

Phantom voices keep nipping at his ears and it’s just as bad as it used to be. Maybe it’s because it’s February; an anniversary of sorts. It’s not the exact day Frank got kicked out. That day he tends to celebrate by jerking off as many times as he can to high quality gay porn. For a long time the only thing that kept him alive was spite, and now it’s just tradition. But the entire month was hellish, and even years later he’s apparently still got his hackles up. 

It’s been months since the last time Frank had a nightmare. That’s much better than his first year of college. Freshman year he used to have them about five nights a week. He’d rather not have them at all, but he’s not lucky enough to have shaken the beast off his back yet. 

Two AM glares brightly from his phone when Frank sits up in bed, leans over to blindly search for his phone, and finally flips it open when he gets a hold of cool plastic casing. Frank’s never good at being alone with his own thoughts when he dreams about his parents. Mikey or Gerard will still be awake at this hour. Two is practically the middle of the evening for them.

Instead of pressing speed dial two or three, he scrolls through his contacts to find Brendon’s number. There’s a chance Brendon’s still awake. Even if he’s not, Frank’s positive he’ll pick up the phone.

Sure the Ways -including Gerard and Mikey’s parents- are great people. They let him crash on the couch for a year without as much as a sideways look. Don came to pick him up at Denny’s at dawn after he slipped on the ice and sliced his leg while wandering the city, not knowing where he was supposed to take his backpack and sleep. He hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital in case they called his parents. Twelve hours after being kicked out, there was no way he’d still be on their insurance -his mom was efficient like that- but they might have called just because of his age. Mr Way had saved him from the extra hurt of them not bothering to show up.

But great people that helped him survive isn’t the same as having someone who really knows how it feels. Before his boyfriend, Frank’d never met someone else also kicked out as a teenager. Mikey and Gerard remember, Brendon understands. 

So he calls Brendon, who answers with a yawn on the third ring, and tells him he dreamed about the last time he saw them. And rather than getting an impassioned speech about how he’s better than them, how they don’t even deserve to look at him, never mind take up a space in his thoughts, Brendon just tells him he’ll be okay. He says it and he breathes, and Frank doesn’t have the awkward urge to defend the people who loved him for sixteen years, then turned it off completely like it was a faucet. All he has is Brendon’s inhales and exhales, nothing that makes his stomach churn and his thoughts race. Listening, his own anxious breathing slowly calms until Frank’s sure their hearts are beating in sync. It’s a nice way to fall back asleep.

*

The clear -really fucking pretty- sky outside is a big tease. Brendon notices that the moment he leaves the mall, a brisk wind slamming into him like it was just lurking around the building waiting for him to finish his interview. Luckily, he still has his coat with him. He won’t freeze to death on the way to his car.

It’s mid-day and Brendon’s been here since the day started out cloudy, with a steely chill in the air. Brendon wasn’t expecting to be out this long. He was at casting call for some local, low-budget, indie film his agent thinks might be a big deal when it hits the festival circuits. The movie’s premise isn’t exactly his usual thing, but if he doesn’t try to branch out now, he’ll still be playing the dorky best friend in bad high school flicks until he’s forty. That is _not_ impressive in a portfolio, on his resume, or being brought up during conversations. 

There’s something heavy about the material. Promise in it, and Brendon was sure he seemed way too squeaky clean for the casting crew. He wasn’t told to leave when they started cutting through people though. And now it’s four hours later that he’s getting to leave. He still won’t get the part, but maybe he made a good enough impression that something good will come from it. 

His car almost blinds him when the sunlight reflects off the metal the moment he walks up to it. Brendon stares longingly at his sunglasses that he left hooked around the sun visor for a second before popping the driver’s side door open and sliding in. The rest of his evening is free and Brendon already has a plan. He doesn’t need a late lunch because the snack machines in the hallway near the studio space supplied crunchy goodness that should tide him over for a few more hours. There’s a little tattoo parlor not far from the mall that checks out as clean, courteous, and experienced. Brendon’s been thinking about Frank’s tattoos for weeks now, and wants ink of his own.

It’s a decision he’s not sure he would have made had he never met Frank, but Brendon wants to do something reckless and so outside his usual comfort zone for a reason. Call it a grand gesture or a very blatant, neon sign, of infatuation. Brendon’s not going to do something stupid, like getting Frank’s name inked across his ass, but still he wants to do this.

Ryan’s going to stroke-out when he notices. Spencer will find a way to calm him down enough that Brendon will have a nine hour lecture to blank out afterwards. He doesn’t care. Frank gets jobs even with all the ink he has, what’s one tattoo going to change about Brendon’s own career?

Nothing. If they want him, and not the ink, it can be covered up. Quick as that.

And it’s not like he has to worry about what his family would say. They’d hate this decision, but they no longer have a say in Brendon’s personal life. He’s been out of their lives for too many years now for them to matter, even if they were near enough to speak their opinions. 

Frank’s going to like it. That’s all that matters. Fuck everyone else.

Brendon parks and goes inside the parlor. Everything after that sort of blurs by in the sweep of another hour or so. He’s going to have to come back for a second session to fill in more color and have some touch-up work done, but for the most part his tat is epic. Better than the look is the feelings that come from it. Now all Brendon needs to do is avoid his roommates-slash-best friends the rest of the evening. It would suck if his happy got smashed this quickly. He knows quite well that their first glance at it will cause a commotion.

It’s not to be, of course. When he gets home they both are too. It’s not a strange thing; Spencer has a steady eight to four job and Ryan is either at home, in the university library, the public library, or a bookstore. Nor are they the eating out type. The drawer under the microwave is literally stuffed with take out menus, some places Brendon hasn’t ever even tasted food from. He was just sort of hoping they would inexplicably be out.

They’re both reading in the living room, on opposite sides of the sectional with their toes nearly touching. Normally Brendon would casually walk past, only at the last instant bending over the back of the couch to tickle both of them at once. There’s just something about making them both squeal like girls that works for him. Today he’s more concerned with hanging up his jacket in a way that exposes his forearm the least. If he can make it to his bedroom, they’ll probably leave him alone. Privacy is a main component of human decency, Ryan thinks, along with literacy and elegant fashion choices. Unless he’s really distracted with the latest text he’s devouring or essay he’s writing, Ryan knocks before he enters.

That being said, Ryan is also a nosy asshole who feels he has the right to know everything that’s going on with his loved ones. He notices the bandage taped to Brendon’s arm nearly immediately, and hones in like a mosquito. 

Spencer turns on the couch. He hasn’t put his bookmark in his book and closed it, he hasn’t committed to joining the incoming scene. But he’s watching over the top of the paperback, waiting to see what’s going to happen.

“How’d you maim yourself today?” That’s pretty rich coming from Ryan. Spencer could get away with it, but Ryan has several thousands of dollars of medical debt from the nearly monthly accidents he gets into. Brendon will never understand how it seemed like a good idea to eat soup from a can that went pear shaped, not even when Ryan explained from _I was hungry_ from his hospital bed.

“I didn’t.” He could leave it at that, but Ryan’s just going to ask more questions. He might was well pre-answer them. “It’s a tattoo.” 

The sound of Spencer’s book being tossed onto the coffee table is sign enough that it’s _on_ , he doesn’t even have to look at Ryan’s body language. “Why would you-?”

Ryan not being able to finish his sentence is probably a bad thing. Good for his ears, but bad for estimated length of spaz attack. Brendon rallies with “because I wanted to.”

“ _He_ made you, didn’t he?”

“No.” Not really, anyway. Frank just made him a little braver, he didn’t force him into the chair.

“That boy is drawing you into a cult. Soon you’ll be writing pig in blood on people’s walls!”

Brendon looks pointedly at Ryan's wrist tattoos. Ryan doesn’t seem to notice, which isn’t surprising. “Stop calling him that boy. We've been dating like four months now.”

“Fine. That man is drawing you into a cult!”

“It wasn’t the age in boy I was frustrated about, Ryan!”

Spencer snickers on the couch, but beyond that doesn't get involved. Instead of replying, Ryan walks away. Spencer sighs and after a minute boosts himself out of the comfortable cushion to follow his boyfriend. Brendon would like to believe he’s gotten off so easily, but he doesn’t. If Ryan draws blood theatrically scratching at his tattoos as he wails that he’s led Brendon astray, Brendon’s going to have to deal with Spencer being pissed off at both of them. It’ll be better if they just get this over with now. Brendon grits his teeth and follows Spencer.

Ryan’s on the phone in his and Spencer’s bedroom. For a second Brendon thinks that it’ll be a student Ryan goes to university with, someone with a tramp stamp horror story, or a tale of an artist using dirty needles. Then he listens to what he’s saying, and realises it’s far worse. 

“We need to talk. -- Yes Frank, it is Ryan. I-”

He gets cut off as Brendon does a combination of leap and dive. It’s been years since he played volleyball in high school gym class, but that was his favourite unit, and his aim is still blisteringly accurate. The hard slap gets the phone flying out of Ryan’s hand, but doesn’t even skim his ear.

“You did _not_ just do that!”

Brendon follows the trajectory. Ryan’s cell is in a nearly mixing bowl sized ceramic bowl of discarded cereal on the dresser. He doesn’t know how long it’s been sitting there, he doesn’t go into their room just like they don’t go into his. Congealed or not, milk probably isn’t good for phones.

Thankfully, before Ryan can have an utter meltdown, Spencer interrupts. “No, seriously, tell us more about Brendon's cult activity.”

Brendon mutters ‘thanks, assface’ as Ryan shouts about mandated bodily disfigurement, but he’s actually pretty grateful. Ryan’s rant about Frank being a cult leader will be a lot more funny than a rant about him being a selfish bastard ruining other people’s belongings, and Ryan will wear himself out with it. He won’t switch back to denigrating Brendon’s character, which is something Brendon got quite enough of when he was a child.

“He has a mantra you’ve printed out and framed!”

“Those are lyrics, Ryan.”

“You’ve memorised them like they’re your scripture!”

Ryan should know better than to think that Brendon will ever listen to any scripture again. Before he can say that, Spencer throws in “Blink 182 discography mean anything to you Ryan?”

“Fine. But you have to admit he’s obsessed with murder.”

“ _Movies_ , Ryan. Movies. Or do you think I’m obsessed with teenagers?”

“No, you're not a pedo.”

Spencer tilts his head in thought. “I'm pretty sure pedo’s with kids. Like, that's the Latin, right?”

They don’t need him for this. Brendon will probably get more shit later, Ryan will no doubt tell him how much more unlikely it’ll be that he’ll get good parts if he’s covered head to toe in ink. But for now, he might as well do his own thing. Brendon crosses the hall to his bedroom and locks the door. He types in the number that he knows by heart and Frank answers on the first ring. 

“Hey Bren. What was that about?”

“Doesn’t matter. Ryan being Ryany.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Of course he does. Brendon might have Ryan, who is annoying in one way but Frank’s got Gerard and Mikey, who are annoying in another. “What’re you doing?”

“Well, Spencer and Ryan are arguing about the definition of pedophile, but I decided to not sit in on that. And I've got something to show you the next time I see you. How was your day?”

*

Frank’s cell phone is somewhere in his trailer. His fingers itch to type out a message. Normally when he’s on set, or hell, on location, Frank has to cut his cell off because he gets _way_ too many texts from Mikey and Gerard about costume design and set building. This time, however, he’s left his phone on. He’s just fucking forgotten it today. For some reason that’s setting him on edge.

Frank’s shot on location about as much as he has on a closed off set in Jersey. There’s no reason for him to be this jittery and edgy. Except, this is the first shoot he’s been away from Brendon.

It would be an understatement to say that he’s missing Brendon a little. The director keeps telling him to channel the discomfort and loss into his performance. Frank’s doing the best he can, but it’s still hard as fuck. Harder than sitting in a salon chair for three hours while prosthetics are being applied to his face, neck, hands, and various other body parts. Frank’s not used to this. Even when he’d fall head over heels with someone, it never, _ever_ bled into work. This is a first for him. Frank just wants to wrap up shooting so he can catch a flight home and surprise Brendon.

He’s so fucking gone it’s ridiculous.

“Earth to Frankie. We need you running now.”

The aid pokes him with her clipboard and Frank steps into frame. They’re outside, in a wooded area and there’s supposed to be some monster chasing people. Frank gets to pretend to hunt the fucking thing down. Mikey and Gerard are going to have a field day with this film when it gets released, Frank can already tell.

It takes four cuts before he finds his balance. From there things smooth out, mostly. There’s a chilly afternoon breeze fluttering through fallen pine needles, messing up a shot when it turns into a gust that blows a broken tree branch into the camera. Frank swears for a second he can hear Brendon’s name, but then the camera lady fixes the angle of the shot and he’s off being the big -or short- bad hunter person trying to kill the fucked up science experiment that escaped its prison to start killing stupid teenagers in the national forest not far from the lab.

Dusk comes and goes, the night falls on them and the director wraps Frank’s scenes for the day. There’s a few pick-up shots he wants of the main chick and her jock boyfriend. Those can be shot without him though, so Frank goes to wardrobe to change into more comfortable clothes. 

After he’s dressed down out of the mock military outfit he gets to sport this film, he thinks about what to do next. He’s hungry. If Frank sprints maybe he can get something good from craft services. They serve shit at weird hours though, so he might be out of luck. 

Somehow, he comes out with a danish and coffee. It’s not breakfast hours, but Frank’s not going to press his good fortune too far by questioning it. He clambers up into his trailer and almost steps on his cell phone. It buzzes at him, almost as if it knows that he was about three seconds from accidentally crushing it like Godzilla rampaging Tokyo. Coffee sloshes in his cup when Frank sets it down so he can chase after his vibrating phone. 

He’s expecting it to be a text from Mikey or Gerard, but it’s from Brendon. Instead of taking his danish, coffee, and phone the three steps to the couch, Frank sits down on the thin carpet of the trailer and scoots until his back is against the sagging front of the couch. He sips his coffee and devours the danish while he reads the text. It’s nothing special, just Brendon asking if he’s had a good day. Frank smiles through the heavy feeling in his chest. He’s miles away from home and missing his boyfriend. 

If Brendon were here, Frank would be curled up around him, but since Frank’s on a job and Brendon’s back in Jersey that’s not going to happen for at least a few more days. Frank can hopefully make it that long without going mental. As long as the director doesn’t decide to add a million scenes to Frank’s list of shots. 

*

Brendon’s still awake when Frank comes back from the bathroom. He’s gotten pretty used to falling asleep beside his boyfriend. It’s not that he can’t sleep without him. If that were true he’d be screwed the times that Frank’s gone to location. It’s just nicer when he’s there, whether it’s his bed or Frank’s. It’s a kind of magic; the way having Frank beside him can make him sleepy when he’s used to it taking upwards of an hour to fall asleep. 

Frank tosses off the housecoat, not bothering to hang it on the hook on the back of the door. Brendon bought it for him, the day after the first night he spent over. It’s polkadot fleece, Brendon’s favourite of all the soft fabric choices. He’s naked underneath it, except for his tattoos. It’s a good look for him. “I can’t believe I have to wear that just to cross the hall.”

Brendon shrugs, not that it’s visible under the pile of blankets. Unlike at Frank’s apartment, grey duvet matching the steel blue walls, Brendon’s bed is covered by five or six blankets, with another few folded in the closet so he never has to wash them all at once. “Ryan has a thing about nudity.”

“Ryan has a thing about everything,” Frank answers. Brendon shrugs again. He can’t exactly dispute the statement. It’s not slander if it’s true.

Frank lifts the corner of the mound and kicks off his slippers. Those Brendon didn’t buy, Frank just brought them himself. He has a thing against bare feet on hardwood. The cold air seeps in before Frank crawls under and the blankets resettle. Frank’s only been out of bed a few minutes and he’s already cool to the touch. No wonder he wears hoodies all the time. Brendon does his best to curl himself around his boyfriend. It’s pretty much identical to the position they were just in, except now neither of them have erections.

“You doing anything tomorrow?”

“Seeing Alicia and Gabe for a bit, I think? Pete’s on tour for a few weeks, and Mikey decided to follow for a few days. Apparently it’s lonely, just the two of them. You?”

Brendon doesn’t really get how four people can have one relationship. He’s not horrible enough to hate them for it, or ignorant enough to think it must just be two couples that spend a lot of time together. He just doesn’t understand it. One day he’ll ask. “Nothing really. Dropping off a few ‘real job’ applications, probably. It’s been awhile since the last role, and Spencer can only cover so many of my expenses before I feel guilty about it.”

“You could come live with me?” Brendon’s breath spasms in his lungs. He didn’t think they were anywhere near that yet, and he’s not sure how to feel about the idea. Then he’s flooded with relief as Frank snickers. “I could be your sugardaddy. The Brian to your Justin.”

“I’m not an artist, you’re not an ad exec, and we do not have a fuck everyone we see relationship. Zero for three, Iero.”

“Noted.” He pauses a second then asks “we going to sleep, or we trying for a second go? If so, I’m definitely fucking you.”

“Sleep’s good.”

So close to Frank, Brendon can feel the muscles in his shoulders move as he clasps his hands. Frank prays every night, tattooed knuckles linked as he says his peace silently. They’ve talked about religion, along with most other ‘big’ issues. As far as Frank is concerned, there’s a God but the churches should all crumble and rot. In Brendon’s view, that hope is a bit conservative. After his youth, men in the sky will never be an option, temple or not.

Frank’s breaths are slowing and Brendon’s limbs are getting heavier when the phone rings. Frank’s got his shut off, so it must be his. Which is strange. He doesn’t know anyone that would call him at slightly after one in the morning. He reaches out to get it, but of course it’s on the bedside table on the other side of Frank, and Frank’s limbs are completely entwined in the layers of blankets. It takes a good four rings to get it against his ear.

“Hi. So I just finished watching Gridlock Youth. You suited the role, I think. But there were some basic inaccuracies, you know. Like the glass in the window that eventually your best friend Jade put her fist through when the Geography teacher was outed as a neo Nazi? In real schools they only use glass with wire running through it so they can’t break. And-”

Brendon angles his face so he can talk more directly -and more importantly more quietly- into the phone. In the process it hangs up on Gerard. “Fuck. My face hung up on him.”

“Don’t worry. Gerard’ll call back.”

“How did you know it was Gerard?”

“Who else calls at two in the morning besides my best friends?”

Sure enough, about thirty seconds later the phone starts to ring. This time Brendon’s able to pick up on the first ring. It hardly matters though. Brendon’s only had time to apologise for hanging up accidentally when Ryan bursts in the room, aubergine terrycloth robe tied tightly at the waist. Ryan easily plucks the phone from Brendon’s loose grip.

“Calling hours are between eleven am and ten pm.” With that he holds the sleep button and runs the slider to turn off the phone.

“Good night Brendon. Good night Frank.” It’s briskly said. Then he’s turning around and walking out, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Wow. Think I could institute that policy?”

Brendon snorts. From what he knows of the Ways, there’s no feasible way for Frank to ever get rid of them. Not that he would want to. Frank’s Ways are Brendon’s Spencer and Ryan. Brendon gets silly freakouts and diva expectations, and Frank gets lists of facts and late night phone calls. It’s just the way things are.

Except now Gerard’s called him to tell him the wrong minutiae of one of his movies. It’s nice, really. Makes him seem more officially part of the group. Brendon _likes_ belonging.

*

Frank’s out and about. He doesn’t have any set work to do for awhile now, only when they need him for post-production pick-ups. So he’s running errands. He can always clean when he needs something else to do, but for now he’s got other things he can be doing first. 

He’s already baked. Nothing fancy. Just a few batches of simple sugar cookies late last night when he couldn’t sleep and his cell phone was oddly silent. Luckily, he still had enough baking soda laying around to keep from having sugary cinnamon biscuits instead of cinnamony sugar cookies. 

Frank didn’t really have to bake, especially in the middle of the night, but it makes him feel human again after spending hours a day pretending he’s a murderous alien or some terrifying blend of man and beast jonesing for a quick fix of fresh blood. Brendon, apparently, thinks Frank enjoying spending quality time with his oven is adorable or some other cutesy Susie-Q Homemakerish stereotype. Anyone else and Frank would have punched them in the shoulder for being a dick, but somehow Brendon has a way of getting Frank to let things slide. He blames the puppy dog eyes and the hopeful little kid smile. 

The whole adorable thing might be why Frank’s standing outside of Brendon’s apartment complex with a Tupperware container full of cookies held near his side while he waits for a tenant to slip out of the building. His errands aren’t exactly anywhere near where his boyfriend lives but Frank hasn’t seen Brendon in at least three days. Their schedules haven’t matched up because Brendon’s part-time _normal people_ job is in retail and is a huge fucking hassle, But it’s a pay check, so Frank refuses to complain. Much. 

Last night -before he crashed after his hell shift- Brendon had texted that he was sleeping in today, since his day shift got cancelled because management doesn’t want to give him overtime. Frank kinda wants to surprise him. Cookies will only smooth the greeting if Brendon’s still sleeping. It’s not like Brendon’s going to turn down sweets at any time of day. It’s sugar. Frank could pour a cup of Dixie into a bowl for him after letting him sleep for half an hour and Brendon would be all smiles.

If the call button outside the building worked, he’d already be inside, but it’s been busted a few weeks. Brendon’s told him that it’s actually rare for the call button to work. It’ll get fixed, only to fritz again, or one of the other tenants’ children with go at the call box with a bat, stick, or rubber mallet enough times to bash the buttons in. This way, it really will be a surprise. Frank smiles to the lady from the floor above Brendon when she opens the front door of the building to take her dog out for exercise. She’s caught him and Brendon holding hands in the elevator twice before. Frank still doesn’t remember her name, even though Brendon keeps reminding him. He can’t help that her energetic little terrier Punkie is more memorable than she is. She’s not asking for an autograph or rambling about horror movies, so Frank doesn’t have to worry about her. 

The elevator doesn’t stop at any other floor. It’s a relief. Frank doesn’t have to worry about having to make small-talk with anyone. He can just lean against the cool metal and hum stanzas to rock songs while he waits, which isn’t long at all. 

When he knocks on Brendon’s door, Ryan opens it after the fourth rap, right before Frank goes for the fifth. 

“Come on in.”

Frank eyes Ryan warily, but walks into the apartment anyways. He wasn’t expecting Brendon to answer the door. Spencer, yes, Brendon or Ryan, not so much. Though, considering the hour, Frank should have realized Spencer wouldn’t be around. Except, apparently he is.

“Brendon’s already left for the day. We have coffee if you’d like some.” Spencer walks out from under the kitchen archway. His shirt’s unbuttoned around the cuffs.

“Did he switch with you? I thought he was off today.”

Spencer takes a sip from his coffee mug. “The transformer that powers the office overloaded. The electric company has to get a new one up, so the boss sent everyone home. We can’t get much done by flashlight.”

Frank walks into the kitchen and slides the Tupperware square on top of the cabinet. Coffee would be good. He’s been over enough to know where the glasses and mugs are. Then he can decide if he wants to wait for Brendon to get back or if he should just change his game plan for the day.

“There’s no telling how long Brendon’s going to be gone. His agent called about some director wanting to talk to him about a few projects.” Sometimes Frank wonders if Spencer can read minds. It’s possible he’s just used to having to _know_ things so that Ryan doesn’t get lost in the linen department of Belk’s, or some off-the-wall shit like that.

Well, looks like he’s going to finish his cup of coffee and then jet. He can always text Brendon later. The cookies will keep. This way they can be more of either a 'Congratulations' or 'Fuck the asshole' surprise, instead of just a 'just because I like you' surprise.

It takes a second to realize that Ryan’s not in the kitchen with Spencer. Fuck, Frank should have tuned into that sooner. Ryan is like some mutant version of an eccentric weirdo ninja. There’s no telling what he might bring up -or do- next. It’s different from Mikey and Gerard’s patented brand of crazy. They tend to stick to their script. Ryan, not so much.

Spencer moves around Frank and pours himself another cup. “He’s got a list.”

Frank has no damn clue what that could translate into meaning. He doesn’t really want to find out, but Spencer’s blocking his exit.

“What the fuck type of list?” 

Spencer shrugs. “He’s been adding to it since Brendon introduced you. That never happens. B doesn’t fall in ‘love’ with people. Ryan likes to pre-plan his attacks.”

Okay, Frank’s not really sure what to make of that. On one hand, he’s elated to hear Spencer tell him something he’s already pretty much known. The fact that Brendon’s friends can tell means it’s obvious. However, on the other hand, hello awkwardness. Also, Frank has a rising suspicion that he’s about to be interrogated on his intentions, which is months late if Ryan starts spouting off about being honorable and chaste. Not that that would stop Ryan fucking Ross. The one thing Frank’s learned in the time he’s kinda known Spencer and Ryan; Ryan does whatever he wants. It doesn’t matter how ridiculous.

“If Brendon turned into a puppy, what would you do?” 

Frank tries not to choke on his sip of cooling coffee. Even expecting Ryan to slip into the kitchen saying something outlandish, Frank’s still caught off guard. What the fuck? “What the fuck, Ross?”

“It’s a completely valid inquiry. Science can neither prove nor disprove the existence of magic or other perceived forms of metamorphism. Your answer is important. It says a lot-”

“About how cracked that question is? You do know I have a dog right?”

Spencer keeps drinking his coffee. He’s still in Frank’s way, the asshole. 

“You wouldn’t try to turn him back? I see, you’d rather have a second pet than a boyfriend.”

Jesus Christ. Frank has to set his coffee mug down next to the Tupperware. If he doesn’t he’s going to throw the damn thing at Ryan’s head. He should have known Ryan wouldn’t just come out and ask, ‘hey man, what are your long-term plans for my friend’. No, Frank gets questions about shit that would never happen.

“I did not say that-”

Ryan cuts him off with an “Okay”. He flips a page in the journal he’s carrying in his hands. Frank wants to lunge forward and swipe the damn thing. There’s no telling how many bullet-point questions Ryan’s planning on subjecting him to. However, Spencer’s watching him as if he knows what Frank’s thinking. With Brendon gone, there’s nothing to dilute Ryan’s insanity. Spencer isn’t even running interference like he normally does when Frank’s around the three of them. He’s just letting Ryan run with his tangents. 

“I asked you a question, Frank. No sex thoughts in the kitchen. I can go get the house rules list if you need a refresher. So, now that I have your attention, I’ll ask again. What are your thoughts on carpeting?”

Setting the coffee mug down was a good idea. Frank has no damn clue what Ryan means by that statement. It could range from actual carpeting methods to something about pubic hair. “Uh. Is that a metaphor?”

It might be the first time Ryan has ever smiled at him. “In Home Is A Cleaning Product the use of carpeting signified many different things, depending on placement and other such factors.”

Spencer grins. “He wrote a twenty page essay on the novel.”

Frank takes a stab in the dark. “I like carpeting. It’s warmer than hardwood.”

It’s impossible to tell if that’s the right answer. Ryan just flips a page. “If you thought you heard a mysterious noise or evil cackle in your basement or attic or kitchen, house layout permitting, who would go check to see if it was a serial killer?”

“Ryan, a box of cereal fell off the fridge.”

Ryan doesn’t let Spencer’s exasperated, obviously repeated explanation stall him. “You, or Brendon?”

“We’d both sit in bed, and call the cops from the bed. I work in the horror industry, you know that. I would never split up.” Not that he truly believes in the things he acts out. But hypothetically, it’s one of the first rules of dangerous situations, alongside ‘don’t go into the woods’, and ‘the corpse probably isn’t dead so don’t casually walk past it’.

Ryan opens his mouth to ask another question when the Halloween theme jingles in Frank’s pocket, cutting him off. Frank sighs with relief. He’s pretty sure he catches an instant of Spencer frowning like his cable’s been cut off mid-episode.

“That’s going to be important. I’m leaving now, this has been fun. Let’s not do it again.” He grabs the Tupperware square and makes a tactical retreat for the door.

Like hell is he going to let Ryan know that the Halloween theme is set for unknown numbers. If he’s lucky, someone miss-dialed the local florist again. Frank’s fielded calls, occasionally, when people accidentally press five instead of six as the last digit. He’s had way too much fun taking imaginary orders before. 

Once he’s back outside, he checks his phone. No new voice mails. One missed call from a restricted number that he’s not going to call back. If it’s important, whoever it is will ring him until they get him. 

He sends a quick text to Brendon

**txt whn fre. hv cookies**

For now, he’s going to finish his errands. Later can be boyfriend time. He can reenact what just happened, mostly to see how Brendon reacts.

*

Frank spends the week after Mikey’s birthday with Gerard, setting up for his belated birthday party. Mikey’s not going to be home until the fifteenth. Apparently Pete’s bassist got caught snorting something, and took a few swings when they told him to keep it between tours. Alicia and Mikey had an intense video game battle to figure out who would go drive down and meet their van to play the last six shows. Mikey won, with Yoshi, irritating Alicia and horrifying Gerard.

From what Brendon can tell, Mikey’s birthday is going to be as epic as Christmas was. Gerard seems to have a go big or go home attitude. Brendon can appreciate that, even if it’s sort of exhausting to be around constantly. Brendon can’t even go over every night with Frank. Gerard’s too much. It almost makes Brendon believe in fate, to know that Gerard’s asexual and has absolutely no interest in inflicting himself on only one person until death do them part.

He does go to the party though. Gerard -and for that matter Alicia and Gabe- have made it perfectly clear he’s invited. He’s not crashing, he’s not even Frank’s plus one. They all think Mikey would want him there, so he’s invited. Brendon feels a bit bad about it. Frank wasn’t invited to Spencer’s birthday two weeks ago, or Ryan’s three days before that. There’s a tension between them that Brendon doesn’t have with Frank’s friends. Ryan and Spencer are just more insular.

Gerard forces them to crouch behind objects when they hear the front door open. It’s kind of dumb, Mikey’s attitude makes it clear he knew they were going to be there. He still has fun jumping to his feet and screaming happy birthday. Pete looks like he has a little more fun, twisting to the side and screaming it in Mikey’s ear as he winces.

“Right, make my boyfriend deaf before I get the chance to relate the seven days of dirty talk I have built up.” Gabe shakes his head and Alicia joins with a low “for shame.”

Thankfully there are no itchy sweater rituals. Instead there’s a mixing bowl of slap bracelets. Brendon didn’t think they even made them anymore, but somehow Gerard got about fifty. It doesn’t really surprise him, when he thinks about it. Other things in the room are more impressive, like the mural of Mikey riding a zombie Loch Ness and leading a zombie fish army to the shore hanging the same way the fabric panels did before.

Alicia proposes a game, and they all agree enthusiastically. The next few minutes make him laugh; seven people chasing each other around the room, attempting to get their bracelet arsenal on the others in the group. Brendon tackles Mikey from behind in a burst of energy, only realising his mistake when Mikey tilts the wrong way and his face is mashed against Mikey’s back. Mikey smells like a week of dried and rewetted sweat.

“How did you lick his neck?” Brendon squeaks when Gabe comes over to help the both of them up with a hand each. His skin is rancid. Brendon could never do that if Frank hadn’t showered for over a week.

“The things you do for love,” Gabe answers with a smile. The sweet moment is ruined when Pete sneaks up and attempts a double slap, neither curling fast enough to defeat Gabe.

Eventually it’s time for birthday cake. When Brendon sees it, he grins. It’s not very birthday-like, but it fits Mikey. It’s a white round cake, probably about six inches high. Instead of writing of birthday wishes on the top it’s got icing blood splatter. The sides have icing blood drooling down. He’s nearly positive Frank made it. He didn’t witness it being made, but there’s no arguing that his boyfriend’s got a way with ingredients. It’s probably mixed from actual flour and eggs, not just a Duncan Hines mix.

Mikey grins when he first sees it. It’s only after staring for the minute that he frowns. “The blood splatter is inaccurate.”

Frank crosses his arms, eyebrows raised. “You try to be accurate with cutting the corner off a plastic baggie and squeezing icing through.”

“I love it and stuff. But it's still inaccurate.”

“Would you like me to take the cake away so it doesn’t offend you?”

Gabe shakes his head. “On behalf of the sane in the group, fuck no.”

It takes a few hours, and everyone except him and Gerard going outside for a smoke break that Brendon’s pretty sure wasn’t about cigarettes, before the second round of sweets come out. This time Frank magically pulls a huge, nearly steering wheel sized tin of cookies out. They match the bloody violence theme of the earlier cake. The cookie is only vaguely anatomical heart shaped, the piping of icing is where the concept really works. Everyone takes one as the box gets passed around.

A minute later, Gabe’s grabbing for his second, Gerard is clearly savouring his, and Pete is just looking at his. At Mikey’s nudge he explains “I feel weird about taking a bite.”

“You feel weird about eating gingerbread too.” Alicia turns to him to explain. “Boyo doesn’t know whether to start at the head or feet. He can never figure out which is less cruel.”

“I feel like I’m a cannibal eating this.”

“It’s a cookie. Suck it up bro.”

Mikey's informative compared to Alicia’s light mockery or Gabe’s encouragement of perseverance. “They don't look that real. The blood is really static.”

Frank doesn’t take the comment well. “It’s not like I can put corn syrup on cookies. It will _drip off_. I’m never making cookies for any of you assholes ever again.”

They decide to leave around midnight. Over the last hour the quartet have gotten increasingly hands on. Gerard’s sketching so he probably wouldn’t notice if Pete burst into flame, but Brendon’s physical public affection threshold is low, thanks to the generally prudish nature of Ryan, and Spencer knowing it’s generally easier to follow Ryan’s whims instead of battling them. By the time Alicia’s hand is curled around the belt of Gabe’s jeans Brendon’s uncomfortable. When Mikey stretches out over her to kiss Gabe it’s worse. Brendon breaks when he sees Pete’s hand sneaking up Alicia’s skirt.

He really hopes Gerard notices before clothes come off, but doesn’t feel comfortable enough to say that. Instead he just says his goodbyes and follows Frank upstairs. On the way out Frank stops at the fridge. He pulls out a second massive tin of cookies. “It was gonna be a surprise, but I don’t need that shit tonight.”

Brendon shrugs. He thinks Frank’s a bit over-upset about it, but he’s not able to say that. Besides, it’s not like he’s gonna complain about having a ready supply of Frank’s mind blowing cookies.

Frank drops him off at home. Usually he has a few articles of clothing at Frank’s, but he’s pretty sure there’s no underwear left. He can’t wear used underwear to work, it’s gross. Brendon kisses Frank goodnight, promises to see him again tomorrow, and heads inside.

It’s instinct to head directly for Frank’s kitchen when he comes over. The tin isn’t in any place obvious, so Brendon relocates to the living room. It shouldn’t be on a low surface, Peppers likes people food way too much, but it’s possible Frank forgot. But the tin isn’t there, or in the bedroom, and Brendon highly doubts it’ll be in the bathroom.

“The hell are you doing?” Frank calls from the living room.

“Looking for the leftover cookies! Duh!”

“I took them to work, where they would be appreciated.”

“What?” His tone comes out closer to ‘how could you shoot my kitty’ than ‘I don’t understand’. A director would tell him to dial it down, but Brendon feels justified in the level of betrayal in his voice.

“My friends mock my cookies. My coworkers eat them and thank me. Which sounds like a better result? Come watch tv!”

It is totally not his fault that everyone else are giant bastards. His cookie consumption shouldn’t be jeopardised by Mikey bitching and Pete whining. He doesn’t have Pete’s phone number, but before he moves to join Frank he texts Mikey **I hate u, u fuckin suck**. Now he’ll have to create a Super Stealthy Secret Plan to sneak onto Frank's set so he can smuggle out whatever cookies are left. A plague on Mikey’s house!

*

A week, maybe two, is totally doable. He can handle Brendon being away for that long, surely. Frank’s not hurting for distractions anyways. There’s a horror for teens workshop running that he’s been invited to for the week. The pay’s not as good as what he gets for filming normally, but it’s fun teaching drama kids the finer arts of monster movies and psychological horror. Also, it’s entertaining watching the teenagers angst over each other and get massively dramatic about the tiniest of things. The world’s not going to end if Blake doesn’t ask Sue to the fall formal.

Thank fuck Frank’s no longer in high school.

Besides the workshop, there’s always some voice-over shit he can help with at the studio. That also doesn’t pay as well as being an actual principal in a film. But it’s cool when he gets to growl and pretend to be some evil demon spirit haunting some busty up and coming scream queen. 

Four days in -after he’s done with the workshop for the day- he breaks. It’s weird -and oddly lonely- not having Brendon around. Sporadic texts are not the same. Sporadic texts filled with exclamation points and smiley faces _really_ aren’t the same at all. Not that Brendon doesn’t add random smileys into his texts when he’s extra caffeine high hyper. The exclamation points are new though. Frank kinda loathes the fact that he’s not the reason for that abundance of happy punctuation.

Apparently, this director likes Brendon’s style. She wants to start brainstorming a project he can front, but until then he’s on the set of her newest film trying to fit in and, from the texts, succeeding. After their meeting weeks back, she cast him as a secondary character in whatever low-budget yet still emotionally profound flick she’s in the process of shooting now. So he’s filming his scenes on location and having a ball.

Without Frank.

Fuck.

“If you sigh and pull out your phone to check it again, I’m going to throw my charcoal pencil at you. This little cloud of gloom you’ve got going for you is choking my creative soul. If you want to be the Pig Pen of angst, please go method act elsewhere. Maybe Pete can write a song about your bone-crushing sadness if you can find him. Or, I don’t know. Do something else, just do it not here.”

Gerard doesn’t even look up from his sketch. Frank leans forward to catch a glimpse. He wants to see what his emotional break-down is keeping Gerard from finishing. Tiny goblins are dancing around a table. There’s the broken body of a prince tied to the table top. A princess sits at the head of the table watching the events unfolding. She doesn’t have much detail to her yet, but from the slope of the one shoulder Gerard has completed, she doesn’t seem too torn up about it. 

“My gloom? You’re drawing fantasy torture and my emotional crisis is fucking with _that_?” The charcoal pencil hits Frank in the chest. It doesn’t hurt. That doesn’t mean he wants shit thrown at him. “Fuck you, asshole. I’ll find someone who’s more invested in my emotional well-being who won’t bitch and moan about it. Also, I’m taking your pencil with me. Have fun drawing without it.”

Taking Gerard’s charcoal pencil isn’t very effective. Gee has a supply of art supplies that could survive a good two years of a zombie apocalypse. That’s not the point, though. If he’s going to throw something at Frank, he’s not going to get it back. Serves the fucker right.

Somehow, finding someone willing to deal with him turns into no one else being around, except for Gabe. Fucker won’t even pull out his stash of weed for the occasion. Frank’s _‘emo’_ , apparently, isn’t enough of an emergency to waste on the good shit.

His phone goes dark when the timer on the LED screen runs out, again. It’s set to cut off after thirty seconds. No new texts. Still. 

He sent one a while back, and he hasn’t gotten a reply yet.

“What if he’s decided he likes it better there and never comes back?” Frank’s not really talking to anyone, not even the shitty episode of Top Model that Gabe has playing in the background so they can, hypothetically, mock it. 

Gabe snorts and uses the remote to mute the tv. “Yeah, and he’s going to find seven midgets who are shorter than you so he can live out his life-long dream of being Snow White. What the fuck, Iero? Brendon’s not going to run off and join the circus without asking you to come with him first. Trust is good for a relationship. Look into it.” 

“I didn’t ask for an opinion, oh not so wise and giant asshole.” 

Frank’s phone continues to stay silent and dark when he looks down at it.

“So I guess you were asking the tv then. I don’t think Angelea’s going to answer you, Frankie, your maudlin isn’t loud enough to reach through the glass and shake her free of her bitchy ways enough for her to give a flying fuck.” Gabe’s voice is devoid of laughter. It’s almost as if he’s being serious for a change. Maybe Gerard was right to stock up on art supplies. The world might just end soon.

“You’re a jackass. What if he doesn’t really care about this, us, and I’m making all this shit up in my head? He left. What’s to stop him from doing it again?”

Frank’s not really sure where all his anxiety has come from. He’s never felt this shitty in his life over someone being gone for a week or more. There’s never been reason for him to miss Mikey and Gerard too badly. They call and text whenever the hell they want even if they’re away for some random reason. This experience is new. It’s just as shitty as when he was away on location and missing being with Brendon. Only this time the tables are turned. He doesn’t like the switch around too much. 

“So what, you’re just going to knock him up and chain him to a water pipe so he never leaves you? That’s fucked up, Frank. Even for you. You went in knowing he could get a gig and have to jet somewhere exotic for a project. Hell, he didn’t get this bad when you went off to shoot for your last movie. I don’t see you quitting your job, why should he? Man the fuck up.”

And okay, said like that, Frank sounds like some hypocritical dicksmack. He can’t help that he’s worrying about shit he can’t control. He’s in love. Really and truly in _love_ with his boyfriend and this is so damn new to him. This is not the same love he’s always thought he’s felt for everyone else he’s ever dated, or slept with.

“Fuck...I just miss him. Why is this so fucking _hard_?”

Gabe shrugs. “Just is. Come on, I think there’s eggs and shit in the kitchen. You can bake whatever. Bang the cabinet top with a rolling pin, if you can find one, for all I care.” 

Frank _could_ use the distraction. “You just want sweets.”

“I’m taking one for the team, don’t front and tell me you don’t want to. Up now. Pouting like a teacup Yorkie later.”

Gabe has a point. Maybe while he’s not watching his phone, Brendon will call him. Drop Frank a line he can hold onto so he can stop being a stupid fucking love-struck fool with worry issues.

*

When Frank was looking through his college scrapbook a few weeks ago -Ryan went through a phase, and it’s generally easier to let them pass than try to interfere- his eye got caught on a picture of one of Brendon’s favourite memories; dressing as Dorothy for Halloween. He’d demanded a redo, and Brendon had agreed on the condition that he could go through Way photo albums and Frank would have to recreate the costume of Brendon’s choosing.

He’d agreed, probably thinking he’d get to be Rocky Horror again. He wasn’t very happy with the costume Brendon had ended up picking.

It wasn’t that Brendon didn’t want a landscape of bare chest and tight gold spray painted jean shorts and pantyhose cut into weird sleeves to hide Frank’s tattoos with flesh tone. Frank made as good a Rocky Horror as Gerard did Frank-N-Furter, and Mikey as Riff Raff and Alicia as Columbia and Pete as Eddie. Frank looked hot in the group pictures, there was no doubting it. But it was easily repeatable. Knowing the Ways, Brendon could request a Rocky Horror Picture Show night at any point and everyone would dress up for throwing rice at the screen in the basement. Brendon’s _duty_ was to claim a costume that Frank wasn’t going to wear under other circumstances.

Frank doesn’t seem happy now either; his scowling face is visible inside the open mouth. Brendon prefers to look at the jagged felt teeth, and the sheen of the velvety body.

“Goddamn it Brendon,” Frank sighs. “I look stupid. I’m not five anymore, why do I have to wear this?”

“You’re a stegosaurus!” he answers delightedly. He probably sounds as dumb as the people that tell cats they’re kitties, but really. Frank is a dinosaur, how is he supposed to remain intelligent?

The elevator pings behind him, and out come the dulcet tones of Spencer verbally rolling his eyes at Ryan. “-in the car?”

“The lighting is poor. And it’s too late if I do it at the ball, I’ve ruined my entrance. Text Brendon and ask him-”

Spencer spots them first. “Hey Brendon. Hi Frank. Ryan needs to touch up his makeup. He sneezed and his eyes watered and he thinks he ruined it. Uh. Nice costume.”

Brendon can hear the laugh bubbling up in Spencer’s tone. He tries to distract Frank with a kiss. It’s awkward, Frank’s toothed snout getting caught in his pigtailed wig with each movement of their heads. It only lasts a second anyway, before Spencer breaks into loud peals of laughter and Frank pulls away, embarrassed and infuriated.

“Fuck this.”

It's Halloween, the third best holiday of the year. It’s Halloween and Frank's _birthday_ , and Spencer can't ruin this. That would be like drowning kittens. Brendon turns and confronts him. “You’re being rude, Spencer James Smith the Fifth. I didn't tell Ryan his costume makes him look like a whore and ruin _your_ Halloween and-”

“I look like a whore!?”

Spencer sighs an epic sigh. Brendon feels no remorse. Even Frank feels better for a second, Brendon can see it on his face.

Spencer having to deal with this newest crisis gives Brendon the time to make a compromise with Frank. It’s beyond obvious that Frank is really unhappy.

“You know I don’t care that we’re going to a party of your peers-”

“Not mine, not really.” Ryan’s the one who makes both of them get tickets every year. Ryan’s the permanent student. Brendon was just extending the invitation.

“Yeah, whatever. Point is, I don’t care that I won’t know anybody. Probably wouldn’t know anyone at Gabe’s thing either. But at least there they’d all be too fucked up on ‘shrooms to think anything except maybe that I’m actually a dinosaur. I hate being laughed at, and two of the ‘good’ people are already laughing. I don’t want this, not tonight.”

Pressing his boyfriend to wear something he hates might turn ugly. As much as Brendon likes the costume, it’s not worth never seeing Frank again. He’d hate himself if this was something they broke up over.

“Next year we can _both_ be stegosaruses. Stegosauri? How do you pluralise that? Anyway, take it off for now. What do you want to be this year?”

In the time it takes Spencer to convince Ryan his [genie costume](http://img.costumecraze.com/images/vendors/disguise/520-main.jpg) made ninety-five percent from translucent scarves isn’t slutty, Frank manages to pull together a basic punk rockstar costume. It’s nothing spectacular, but Brendon knows from seeing it in past years that the university sponsored party doesn’t allow people without a costume inside. Heavy eyeliner and glitter covered jeans will have to do.

On the drive to the Ways, Brendon texts Gerard to be waiting outside. The Way house is a shock to the system for first time viewers, and Ryan’s already had one freak out. Brendon also strongly fears what might happen if Alicia or Gabe slide a hand over Ryan’s ass. Their version of a friendly hello is Ryan Ross’ heart attack.

He is on the porch when the car comes to a stop, double parked. Brendon joins Frank in collecting him. Halfway up the sidewalk he can see Gerard’s a marathon runner zombie. He’s gotta be cold, he’s only wearing a t-shirt with a number pinned to it, black short shorts, and aqua socks in order to show off the impeccably done head to toe paint job. Brendon wouldn’t be surprised if Gerard and Mikey spent the entire day doing it.

Gerard sees the details of Brendon’s costume as Brendon sees his. Unlike Brendon, Gerard clearly thinks his is inferior. “No one told me we could do drag!”

He darts back into the house. Brendon looks at Frank, shrugs, and follows him inside. It’s not like Spencer will take off without them. He’ll only complain once they get back in the car, and Brendon can handle that. Mikey’s sitting on the living room couch, obviously waiting for whichever one of his significant others drew the short straw and got designated driver. His make up is as fantastic as Gerard’s, his clothing period accurate. It’s a 1950's school boy zombie costume, and Brendon wouldn’t say it out loud, but there’s weight to an argument that Mikey’s costume is better than some of Frank’s more B-movie fare.

After maybe five minutes Gerard runs by them dripping wet in only a towel -around his hair, not his ass and junk- and heads for the basement. Brendon says a silent thank you that Ryan is still in the car and continues the game he’s playing against Frank on their phones.

When he comes into the living room the second time, he’s dressed as a gothic Snow White. The normally blue bodice is black with small white polka dots, the puff sleeves are black and red, and he’s got a basket of plastic rats. The skirt is black and short enough to show off gorgeous boots, and about as much thigh as the short shorts did. It’s all topped with the same crimson bow the original had in Gerard’s slightly wavy hair.

“I really wish you’d have let me know we were subverting movie norms. I have a great Alice outfit, a lot better than this, but I have to bleach my hair to make it work.”

“You have multiple Disney women’s costumes?” Brendon doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He’s known Gerard for a year now. Of course he has multiple drag outfits.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Mikey quips from his seat.

Frank laughs, the first time tonight. Brendon suddenly feels much better about the evening. If Frank is happy, Brendon can enjoy anything.

*

“I know you probably already have other plans you don’t want to ditch, but you’re still coming over for Thanksgiving tomorrow, right?” Brendon’s voice sounds slightly distorted through the phone, like he’s cradling the casing too close to his chin or something.

Frank cringes and stares up at his ceiling. Peppers licks at his free hand like she thinks he has more yummy treats for her. She’s not as distracting as he wishes she was. Three hours or more stuck in the same room as Spencer and Ryan isn’t exactly something Frank wants to sign up for. He sighs. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, not really.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, even if said world might end when Gerard realizes I was serious about skipping family Thanksgiving with them this year. He and Mikey get territorial about their holiday Frank time. I still don’t need to bring anything right?” 

There’s a sigh over the line. “Sound a little more convincing Frankie, I don’t think you won the Scream Award for that performance just yet. Thanksgiving is about family. I...can’t go home, don’t really want to anymore, which is beside the point, but the guys _are_ the family I have left so-”

With anyone else Frank would have already bitched at them about being some nagging pest, however Brendon’s nowhere near the top of that list. Plus, he does have a point. Frank can’t go home either. The Way household excluded from that context, of course. Thanksgiving is about being _thankful_ for the things -people- he has in his life now and Brendon’s one of those who are important to him. It’s not like Mikey and Gerard aren’t going to live-text him commentary during their yearly Thanksgiving movie ritual anyway. Maybe this time they’ll start early enough and Frank can scar Ryan with depictions of horrory goodness. Spencer might hate him later for it, but the immediate payoff will _so_ be worth it.

“If I’m vying for a Scream Award, you’re going for an Emmy, Bren. I’m coming. I just think things are going to be awkward as fuck. Your friends orbit a planet far far away from here that I’ve never visited. So, rolls or no rolls. Should I bring them?”

Brendon bites off a giggle and Frank wishes they were in the same room together so he could chase the sound with tiny nips at Brendon’s neck.

“No rolls. We’re not _that_ traditional. Maybe we can make a run at a People’s Choice award for best comedy together? I gotta go for now. See ya tomorrow, love you.”

Frank barely gets an answering _‘love you’_ in before he hears Brendon yelling something at Ryan, ending the call not even a second later. They graduated to saying the L word when Brendon got back from his location shoot and Frank couldn’t stop himself from being a moron, blurting out the word without meaning to when they were hugging. Brendon’s responding smile had been well worth the discomfort over realizing he’d goofed up and said his thoughts out loud. Now, Brendon says it as often as he can get away with it. It’s almost as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t he’ll lose his chance. Fuck, Frank really does love him, even if tomorrow’s going to be another rousing lesson in futility dealing with whatever holiday festivities Spencer and Ryan participate in. Hopefully, the not too traditional thing means there won’t be a lace table cloth, embroidered cloth napkins, and fancy china. 

Thursday shows up sooner than he’d like. Frank gets dressed slowly. He doesn’t have to officially drop by Brendon’s apartment till after three. However, he’s already awake, so he might as well go ahead and get ready for the day. There’s no telling how many texts he’s going to get within the next hour about random things from either Mikey or Gerard. They’re not exactly thrilled that Brendon’s monopolizing their friend time, but Frank can’t just skip out on his first Thanksgiving with his boyfriend in favor of spending the holiday the same way he has for _years_. Next November he’ll piss Brendon off and decline, or see if Gerard and Mikey’s parents care if Brendon comes with him to the Way family Thanksgiving of bad horror films and eating way too much food.

By the time he slips through the front door of Brendon’s apartment building he’s responded to thirty texts and has another twelve to open. Fuck it, he’ll use them as an escape plan if he needs to make a quick retreat to the bathroom or Brendon’s bedroom. 

Brendon greets him with a kiss outside his apartment. “Ryan’s trying a three-pronged attack against the kitchen. He’s under the misconception that he can win the battle this year.”

Frank kisses Brendon again and pulls away before he gets a little _too_ affectionate for the hallway. “What battle? Please tell me Ryan’s not cooking anything because I’d rather not have to pull a Rasputin if he tries to poison me.”

Brendon shakes his head and laughs. “Spencer makes a killer side of mashed potatoes. Ryan claims they’re bland as fuck, even if he’ll never say that shit in front of Spencer’s mother. Every year, and I mean that literally, he tries to sneak into the kitchen to add spices to the pot or the mixing bowl. Last year, Spencer locked him outside the apartment for an hour as punishment for getting the pepper shaker too close to the mixing bowl.”

Frank’s not surprised at all. “Is that why you’re outside?” 

“When it gets extra hectic Ryan likes to pretend I’m a human shield. It doesn’t matter that the fucker’s taller than me, he still does it _every single time_. Let me check to see if we’re clear and we can go in.”

Brendon opens the door, sticking his head in for a second before pulling away. Frank doesn’t hear any screaming so he assumes that Spencer didn’t murder Ryan. Well, maybe he needs to wait to make sure the apartment isn’t coated in blood splatter that Gerard and Mikey would critique on accuracy before making any assumptions. 

“I think we’re good, at least until the delivery guy gets here in a little bit.” 

Frank’s about to ask why the fuck a delivery guy would be showing up when Spencer shoves a protesting Ryan out of the kitchen.

“Come on, Spencer. You hate the delivery charge. I promise not a single flake of basil will touch your precious traditional family dish. You can go pick up the pizzas and relax. Your cheeks are getting too red for your blood pressure. If you don’t control it now, you’ll have issues when you’re forty.”

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest. It’s an impressive stance. Fuck, Frank wouldn’t try anything if he came across Spencer right now. It’s a testament to how long Ryan’s known him that he doesn’t back down. 

“We tried that two years ago, and you almost broke your neck reaching for where I hid the paprika. The pizza place can usually fuck a duck with their shitty excuse for making extra money that doesn’t even go to the deliverer. But not on Thanksgiving. I’m willing to suck it up once a year if it keeps _you_ from ruining a fucking good recipe, Ryan. It’s almost as if you’re just trying to disgrace my mom’s potatoes with rubbish.”

Ryan tries to sneak around Spencer to get back into the kitchen. Spencer grabs him by the scarf that’s wrapped around his neck. “No. Ryan Ross, I swear if you try what you did last year, not only will I lock you outside this apartment for the rest of the day, I will also collect all of your scarves and give them to vagrants as fuel for their trash can fires.”

Frank bites his lip, hard, just to keep from laughing. Spencer and Ryan could be their own sitcom. He can't help but lean into Brendon’s space and whisper “why the fuck have you not taped this and sent it in to be approved for network television?”

Brendon shrugs and giggles when Ryan stomps off in the direction of his and Spencer’s shared room. Spencer vanishes into the kitchen muttering to himself about meddling novices in the kitchen trying to spoil a good thing.

“It’s bullet-point something or another on the rules list.” Brendon waves his hands in the air and Frank smiles. His boyfriend is just as ridiculous as his roommates-slash-best friends.

“So.....Pizza and mashed potatoes doesn’t exactly go together. I’m not expected to, like, pile the potatoes on top of my slices am I? Because that might be a little further than I’m willing to go.” 

Brendon shakes his head while grinning. “I wouldn’t advise it. Ryan tried it once and Spencer bitched him out for ruining the potato taste with greasy pizza cheese. I know it’s unorthodox, but it’s _our_ tradition and it’s way fucking better than having nothing.”

Frank can sympathise. The Way’s Thanksgiving is different enough from what Frank’s own family used to observe that it was never too much of a challenge adjusting to it instead of what he was used to. Frank can’t go back to how Thanksgiving was in the past, but he doesn’t really want to anyways. Going back means losing everything he’s gained by going forward. He’s not willing to give that up. Apparently Brendon’s in the same boat. It’s just another reason why they fit together so well. 

Thanksgiving dinner is set once the pizza shows up. They end up around the tiny kitchen table. There’s not an embroidered napkin in sight. The table’s bare, old scars spider-tracing across the smoothed grain of the wood finish. Frank sighs in relief. 

The pizza boxes are set in the center and the bowl of potatoes rests next to the white cardboard. Paper plates get passed around and Frank leans over to snag a second one so his pizza doesn’t leak through the single layer he has. He’d rather not get orange-red-yellow grease streaks on his clothing. It stains in a way that always aggravates him. 

Pizza and mashed potatoes is interesting, to say the least, but it’s not terrible. What’s even better is watching Ryan bitch about the potatoes while Spencer ignores him like he’s had all the years in the world to practice his _Ryan Ross is not nattering at me_ super power. Frank’s impressed. If only he had a similar ability for when Mikey calls to tell him how wrong the symbol patterns are in an occult horror film, or Gerard rambles for two hours on how hunter green is not the same as forest green and how the difference is important to set configuration. 

When they finish eating, everyone settles in the living room. Ryan puts in a DVD of a high school romance flick and the moment Spencer cues the film to start he points out something about a fence that sounds like a tried and true argument that he’s spouted before, many times. Instead of shushing him, Spencer nods along, adding his own thoughts into Ryan’s rant when ever he seems to feel like it. For Frank it’s like an extreme case of deja vu. Or maybe he’s tripped into an episode of the “Twilight Zone”. 

After a few moments he settles into what’s happening around him, curling into Brendon’s space easily. He answers two new texts before laying his head on Brendon’s shoulder. “It’s like they’re Gerard and Mikey’s long-lost younger siblings. Weirder and less interested in morbid shit, but still cut from the same cloth. How is that possible?”

Brendon doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t really have to, because Frank knows the answer. It doesn’t matter how weird their friends are, or how different or the same they seem to be. What matters is that they’re family. Somehow, holidays always seem to put that into prospective. Maybe Brendon and Frank can’t go back home, but they don’t really have to. There’s no reason to. 

*

Brendon’s been waiting for Frank to come to bed for a while now. Every time his dick starts to lose interest he strokes it a few times to remind himself sex is more important than falling asleep. Even if Frank’s bed is amazingly comfortable.

In a last ditch effort to get what he wants, Brendon gets out of bed and pads to the living room. His dick bouncing around as he walks without fabric to restraint it makes him feel kind of dumb, but it’ll be worth it when Frank drools.

Frank’s still curled over his laptop, looking for all the world like he hasn’t moved since Brendon stood up, stretched provocatively and said with a wink he was going to bed. He must be engrossed in the forum he’s trolling because it takes multiple barks from Peppers to get him to stop reading and look up. When he does though, the glance turns into a double take that has Brendon mentally victory arming.

“I really, really want to fuck you. I want you so much.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks with a hint of challenging smirk. Frank wants details. Brendon knows how to talk details.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come to bed. It’s killing me.”

“Yeah?”

“If you didn’t want to fuck I’d beg you to let me rub off on your knee. Every fucking inch of you is sexy to me. I want your ass, and your cock. But I could come all over your back, or your foot, or your neck. Gimme _something_ Frankie. I need it.” He’s only exaggerating slightly, and it’s for a good cause; that glazed over look in Frank’s eye.

“Go back to bed. And get your fingers slick and prep yourself, because I want to be able to fuck you the minute I enter the room.”

Brendon nearly runs.

Frank holds up to his promise. He makes Brendon wait a few agonising, self teasing minutes, then enters. He grabs a cheek in each hand and spreads him, just staring. Brendon can’t help the blush or the way he tries to clench. No one has ever just stared at such an intimate part of him.

“You did what I told you to?”

Brendon shudders and nods against the pillow. Frank’s demanding voice is just about the hottest thing in the world right now. “I had to. You told me too.”

Apparently Frank’s finding this half roleplay sexy too. He adjusts himself on the bed and pushes the head of his cock into Brendon’s body without another word. Once he’s inside he moves his hand to press the small of his back down, effectively pinning him to the bed. And then he _doesn’t move_.

“More.”

“You get more when I want to give you more.”

Brendon waits. He waits forever it seems, long enough that he wants to defy Frank and ruck back and up to his cock. Finally his boyfriend pushes in fully. The sudden shock of it makes Brendon’s toes curl. He loves being fucked by Frank, more than he loves acting, or dancing, or breathing. Frank could fuck him for the rest of eternity and he’d be happy about every second.

Frank comes first. Brendon’s happy for it, because it allows him to roll them both over. It’s more fun jerking off when he’s doing it face to face. Frank reaches under him and keeps him full, keeps fingering him until he shoots his own load, onto the expanse of tattooed skin in front of him.

Brendon’s still kissing Frank’s skin when the phone rings. He swims out of the duvet to pick up the phone.

Frank bats at Brendon’s hand. “Don’t answer! It’s them!”

Brendon snorts. He’s not stupid. “It's-” he checks the digital clock, “two thirty seven. Of course it's them.”

He puts it on speaker before he says hello to Mikey. A move which turns out to be a bit of a mistake when Frank takes it as permission to complain instead of have a conversation with his best friend. “Mikey, I am busy. Fuck off, okay?”

“Too busy for me? What the fuck ever. So Christmas is coming up and-”

“I have come on my chest! We can talk about party plans later, Mikey.”

Brendon looks at Frank. That’s a total lie, he’s licked every bit of it off already.

Mikey takes the admission much calmer than Ryan and Spencer would. Brendon’s friends would hang up on him at that point. Frank’s friends are pervs that don’t give a shit. “He came on your chest?”

“Yes.”

“So then he didn't come in your eardrum. Which means you can listen to me and stop bitching. Okay? Good. So Brendon, Christmas is a big thing for us. But you only got half the experience because you had to spend the morning with Ryan and Spencer. Me and Gee were thinking if you invited them, you could all just come over in the morning?”

Brendon thinks about it. Halloween didn’t go over perfectly, but Ryan’s just going to have to learn how to get along with Gerard. He and Frank are going to be together a long time, maybe forever. Their friends will have to mesh. Christmas is a good second chance.

“I accept for the three of us. Text you tomorrow though, ‘cause I’m not done with Frank yet.” He hangs up, hoping Mikey doesn’t call back immediately. The Ways are tenacious like that.

*

Frank is staring at Brendon. Staring gets a bad rep. Either it’s intimidating or it’s creepy, depending on the specific glint in the eye. Frank doesn’t feel like a creeper, or like he wants to scare Brendon into obedience. He feels just about the opposite, actually. He’s staring and he never wants to stop because he’s got a boyfriend, and his boyfriend is fucking amazing.

Brendon eventually notices the silent attention. “...What?”

“You make me feel so-” It’s hard to finish the sentence. It’s hard to find a word that encompasses everything. 

As he’s about to say ‘super super awesome, like, Captain Planet awesome’, Brendon replies "...la la la la la?” 

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

Brendon returns Frank’s grin. “You make me feel la la la la la too.”


End file.
